Chapter Eight
After I composed myself at my desk, I knew I needed to get out of there, to go home. I grabbed my coat and pounded out the door. I heard Jason’s cackle as I passed him, and it pulsed through my body, making me so fearful and weary. It seemed like everywhere I went, I was reminded of something terrible that was happening—something that was haunting me.
I snagged a taxi and told him to take me to Rachel’s house. I couldn’t even imagine entering my apartment once more, knowing that all the while, Jason was watching me. He knew where I was, what I was doing.
He knew everything.
I pounded up the steps to the apartment and yanked at the knob. My elbow cranked, but the door wouldn’t budge. I realized, then, that I’d come home a bit early—that Rachel wouldn’t be home from work for another half hour. Feeling the strain of this course through me, I pushed my back against the wall and glided down, down, down to the ground. I shook my head into my hands, feeling like nothing was working—like nothing would ever work again.
I tried to think good thoughts about the earlier afternoon, about kissing the president on his couch, about making plans for our weekend. Unfortunately, the entire time, all I could think about was that Camille was lurking outside, her eyes so watchful and certain that her husband was cheating on her. I hated it—I hated this feeling. I began to cry, feeling the tears course down my cheeks.
Finally, I heard them: the clatter of Rachel’s heels up the steps. I lurched up into a standing position, ready for her to appear on the other side of the wall. And that she did: eagerly smiling at me, swinging her satchel from side to side. She waved her hand toward me, and I felt my heart nearly explode in my chest. “Rachel! God, it’s so good to see you!”
She began talking to me about her day, telling me about various office drama. All the while, her eyes looked at me curiously. I knew that she could tell that I’d been crying; I knew that she had a sort of sixth sense about my emotions. However, she didn’t say anything, knowing that if I wanted to share, I would. I absolutely would.
But I felt that I had been far too annoying about my lack of ability to tell her anything the previous day—when I’d rambled on and delivered nearly nothing of my predicament. And so I bit my lip and started preparing dinner, listening to music, and trying to filter my brain into a sort of happiness. The happiness was lined with fear, with anxiety. But it would have to do for now.
It was so strange how my situation haunted me in such a way. It seemed that everything I did, everything I said reminded me of the fact that my career and my life could come crashing around me at any second. I sliced a vegetable, and the fear of the next few months pulsed through my body. It was nearly like I couldn’t do anything but brace myself for the crash. The crash was certainly coming.
Rachel and I holed up and watched a movie that evening, drinking wine casually and speaking about silly things we used to care about. She knew that I was rooted in political comprehensions, and she was lost in her own work thoughts. But it was good that we could come together, that we could be a team in these evening hours.
Rachel pulled off her sock and grabbed at her toes, looking toward me. “I wanted to tell you I suited up the guest bedroom for you. I didn’t have a bed for it until today. I had the movers bring it in at lunchtime.”
My eyes widened. “No.”
Rachel nodded. “It’s all yours.” She led me toward it, wearing just one sock. She opened the door to reveal a king-sized bed, a broad desk, and a dresser. I brought my hand over my mouth in disbelief. The place seemed so comfortable; it brought an ease over my mind. I brought my arms around her neck and hugged her tightly.
“This is the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I told her. I felt my body shaking a little bit. I couldn’t believe I’d lucked into such a friend—such a friend who would take me in when the world felt like it was coming apart.
She pulled back and winked at me. “Get some sleep, Amanda,” she whispered. “I know you’re going to need it.” She looked at me with a worried expression before turning away, back toward her bedroom. I stood in the shadow of the doorway, looking after her. I was worried that my own personal anxiety had spread like a flood, that it was leaking out to those I loved.
There was nothing I could do anymore. And thus, I fell between the sheets and drifted into a deep and delicious sleep.