The L train rumbles beneath me as I slump into an orange plastic seat. The train car is mostly empty—just me, a sleeping homeless man, and a woman reading a romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the cover.
I almost laugh. At least her fantasy man isn't trying to ruin her life. Mine just offered me a million dollars to be his corporate hostage for three months.
My body suddenly feels too heavy for my bones. The thought of hibernating has never been more appealing. Just me, a cozy cave, and three straight months of sleep? Sign me up, please and thanks.
But sleep is among the lamest of ways I could spend the next three months. Second only to working for Andrew Simon.I still can't believe I told him. I actually told him. Andrew Simon, ice king of Casmire hospitality, now knows my deepest, most terrifying secret.
And his response? To weaponize my health insurance needs against me. Joke's on me, though, right? I mean, what did I expect? Sympathy?
Understanding? A hug and a fruit basket and a Condolences card from Hallmark?
The thought of Andrew Simon hugging anyone is so absurd that I actually snort out loud. The romance novel woman glances up, probably wondering if I'm having a breakdown. Which, ya, I kind of am.
My phone buzzes.
MITCHY
How did it go??? Are you FREE?
I squint at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. How do I explain to Mitch that I tried to quit, but LeBastard shredded my resignation, then offered me a million dollars after I word-vomited my medical diagnosis at him?
He made a counteroffer I texted back
OF COURSE HE DID. that manipulative bastard. how much?
… enough to make me feel like i'm going crazy
Kiss and tell, rica! Kiss and tell!
seven figures.
My phone immediately rings. I send it to voicemail. Then it rings again.
"Seven FIGURES?" Mitchy screeches when I finally answer. "As in MILLION? With an M?"
"I will once again remind you that volume control is a virtue," I mutter, even though she's not the one on public transit.
As usual, she could not care less. "For how long?"
"Three months. Until Olympus launches.
"That's like… Hold on, I'm doing math; that's why my brain sounds like it's buffering… That's over eleven thousand dollars a day. Erica, that's insane. That's more than most people make in a month. Per day."
When she puts it like that, it sounds even more surreal. "I know."
"You're taking it, right? Please tell me you're taking it. You could pay off your loans, help your mom, get the best medical care—"
"He's using my health insurance as leverage," I interrupt. "He knows I need
it for… for my eyes."
Silence. Then: "You told him?"
"It kind of came out."
"Oh, honey."
The sympathy in her voice is more than I know what to do with. I press my forehead against the cool window, watching Casmire blur past. "I don't know what to do, Mitch. Part of me wants to tell him to go fuck himself. Take my chances, find another job with benefits."
"But…"
"But what if I can't? What if he's as vindictive as he says he is and he blackballs me from every decent company in the city? And that's without even getting into all the disability stuff. What if my treatment costs more than I can afford even with insurance? What if—"
"What if you're scared?" Mitchy finishes gently.
As soon as she asks the question, the taste of bubblegum floods my mouth, same as it always does when I think about being scared. Because feelings have flavors, you know? And terror… terror tastes like bubblegum.
It's tasted like bubblegum since I was seven years old, sitting at our wobbly kitchen table with a bubblegum popsicle dripping pink rivers down my wrist. It was the good kind, the ones that came in the plastic sleeves that you have to push up from the bottom.
Mama had brought them home from work as a special treat for me.But it didn't feel like such a special night anymore. Not after Mom's boyfriend—I can't remember his name anymore but they always started
with a D; Daniel, maybe? David?—whatever it was, D got mad over something and threw his plate of spaghetti against the wall.
As pasta and red sauce slid toward the floorboard and melting pink popsicle leaked down my wrist, Mom sobbed so hard she could barely breathe.
"Please, baby, please," she begged, her voice high and cracked like broken glass. "I'll be better, I promise. I'll stop asking about your ex. I'll stop calling so much. I'll—"
"Jesus Christ, Georgia, just stop," he spat. "You're fucking pathetic."
He stomped out. He'd told me to call him "Dad" when we first met, but on his way out the door, he didn't bother to look back in my direction even once.
And so I just sat and watched and ate my popsicle, because I was afraid and I didn't know what else to do.
From that moment on, fear has always tasted like bubblegum. Cloying and synthetic and leaving a residue on your tongue that water can't wash away.
Fear tastes like knowing the person who's supposed to protect you can't even protect herself.
The train pulls into my stop. I gather my bag and stand. "I have to go."
"Eri—"
"I'll call you later."
I hang up before she can respond and take the stairs down to street level two at a time. The February air slaps my face, sharp and clarifying for a moment before it ends up reverting to its default of being merciless and miserable.
Not unlike someone else I know.
I keep my face nuzzled in my scarf as I walk the three blocks to my apartment as fast as I can. Even still, I have crystals gathering on my eyelashes by the time I get into my building lobby.
My phone rings again as I'm fumbling for my keys. Mom this time. Of
course. Because this day hasn't been emotionally exhausting enough.