Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
And that’s another thing. The diagnosis. Running away doesn’t change the fact that a tumor is growing in my brain—and a baby in my stomach. Those two are still as incompatible as ever, and the thought of having to make those agonizing choices without Alexei, of facing any of it without him… I swallow, my throat burning, and turn away from the mannequin before the saleswoman behind the counter notices the tears that are suddenly veiling my vision.
Dammit. How pathetic am I? I shouldn’t need Alexei for moral support, or for anything, really. I have no idea what came over me today, why I attacked him in the dressing room like a sex-starved felon, but I’m going to chalk that up to momentary stress-induced madness. Or maybe early-pregnancy hormones. That’s a thing, right? Either way, I refuse to need a man who manipulated, threatened, and murdered his way into my life.
Whatever anxiety I’m feeling at the thought of being away from him is, more than likely, some manifestation of Stockholm syndrome or whatever abused wives feel for their controlling husbands. Not that he’s ever been abusive toward me, but I can’t forget what kind of man he is… or how marriage to that kind of man turned out for my mother.
Fuck. Now I’m really nauseated.
I hurry out of the store and run into a small alley, where I fall onto all fours and retch next to a dumpster, my head throbbing with a violence that makes me want to curl up and die.
“Too much to drink?” asks a German-accented female voice, and I somehow find the strength to lift my head.
I find a tall, lean blonde with a dozen facial piercings regarding me with a sympathetic smile from a few steps away. Before I can respond, she walks over and crouches next to me, handing me a packet of wet wipes and a stainless-steel bottle. “Here. This should help.”
If I weren’t so miserable, I would never impose on a stranger like this, but I am and I accept the offering. Staying on my knees, I pull out two wipes and clean my face and hands before opening the bottle to take a sip of what turns out to be lemon-flavored water. I swish it around before spitting it out. Then I take another sip that I swallow. Thankfully, it stays down, even though the nausea is still intense.
“Thank you.” I throw the used wipes in the dumpster and hand the bottle and the unused wipes back to her. My voice is rough and scratchy, barely recognizable as mine as I say, “That’s very kind of you.”
She shrugs and grins. “Hey, we’ve all been there, right?”
I manage a weak smile back. I doubt many people have been in my exact situation, but I’m not going to get into that with her. She looks to be about my age, and judging by the well-worn backpack slung over her shoulders, she’s likely traveling around Europe, enjoying being young and carefree.
“Thanks again,” I say and force myself to rise to my feet. A wave of dizziness nearly fells me, and she notices, grabbing my arm to hold me upright before I can grab on to the edge of the trash receptacle to steady myself.
“Hey there, you okay?” Her pierced brows furrow as she studies me. “Do you need me to get any medical help?”
“No, I’m—” I take a deep breath to quell another surge of nausea. “I’m okay, thanks.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t smell like alcohol.”
“Yeah, no, I…” I hesitate, then decide to give her a portion of the truth. “I’m pregnant.”
Her sky-blue eyes widen. “Oh. Gotcha.” She scans me up and down, her eyes lingering on my flat stomach. “Still pretty early, huh?”
I grimace. “Very.”
She must realize that she’s still propping me up because she asks, “Are you able to stand?” At my nod, she lets go of me, steps back, and scans me again. Her gaze narrows. “Do you have a phone or anything?”
“Umm, no. I… forgot my purse.”
“Do you need me to call anyone for you? Take you anywhere? Do you live here, or are you visiting?” She throws out the questions without pausing for a single breath. Before I can begin to reply, she says, “Never mind. Let’s get you away from this stinky trash first. My hostel is right next door.”
Gripping my arm again, she tows me to a weather-beaten door in the alley that I hadn’t noticed before. Bemused, I let myself get dragged into what turns out to be a small, dimly lit lounge populated by several gently worn recliners and tables. An unmanned reception desk is on the other end. A rickety-looking spiral staircase occupies one of the corners, and two young women descend it, laughing and chatting in Italian before exiting out of a set of doors on the opposite wall.