The upside to Verity’s office is the view from these windows. The glass starts at the floor and rises all the way up to the ceiling. And there aren’t any obstructions. Just huge panes of solid glass, so I can see everything. Who cleans these? I study the panes of glass for a spot, a smudge—anything.
The downside to Verity’s office is also the view from these windows. The nurse has parked Verity’s wheelchair on the back porch, right in front of the office. I can see her entire profile as she faces west of the back porch. It’s a nice day out, so the nurse is sitting in front of Verity, reading her a book. Verity is staring off into space, and I wonder, does she comprehend anything? And if so, how much?
Her fine hair lifts in the breeze, like the fingers of a ghost are playing with the strands.
When I look at her, my empathy magnifies. Which is why I don’t want to look at her, but these windows make it impossible. I can’t hear the nurse reading to her, presumably because these windows are as soundproof as the rest of this office. But I know they’re there, so it’s hard to concentrate on work without glancing up every few minutes.
I’ve had issues finding any notes so far for the series, but I’ve only been able to wade through a portion of the stuff in here. I decided my time would be better spent this morning skimming the first and second books, making notes about every character. I’m creating a filing system for myself because I need to know these characters as well as Verity knows them. I need to know what motivates them, what moves them, what sets them off.
I see movement outside the window. When I look up, the nurse is walking away, toward the back door. I stare at Verity for a moment, wondering if she’ll react now that the nurse has stopped reading to her. There’s no movement at all. Her hands are in her lap, and her head is tilted to the side, as if her brain can’t even send a signal to let her know she needs to straighten up her posture before it causes her neck to ache.
The clever and talented Verity is no longer in there. Was her body the only thing that survived that wreck? It’s as if she were an egg, cracked open and poured out, and all that’s left are the tiny fragments of hard shell.
I glance back down at the desk and try to focus. I can’t help but wonder how Jeremy is handling all this. He’s a concrete pillar on the outside, but the inside has to be hollow. It’s disappointing, knowing this is his life now. Caring for an egg shell with no yolk.
That was harsh.
I’m not trying to be harsh. I’m just… I don’t know. I feel like it would have been better for everyone if she hadn’t survived the wreck. I immediately feel guilty for thinking that, but it reminds me of the last few months I spent caring for my mother. I know my mother would have preferred death over being as severely incapacitated as the cancer made her. But that was just a few months of her life…of my life. This is Jeremy’s whole life now. Caring for a wife who is no longer his wife. Tied to a home that’s no longer a home. And I can’t imagine this is how Verity would want him to live. I can’t imagine this is how she would want to live. She can’t even play with or speak to her own child.
I pray she isn’t in there, for her own sake. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be if her mind were still there, but the brain damage had left her with no physical way to express herself, robbing her of any ability to react or interact or verbalize what she’s thinking.
I lift my head again.
She’s staring straight at me.
I jump up, and the desk chair moves backward across the wood floor. Verity is looking right at me through the window, her head turned toward me, her eyes locked on mine. I bring my hand up to my mouth and step back; I feel threatened.
I want out of her line of sight, so I creep to my left, toward the office door. For a moment, I can’t escape her gaze. She’s the Mona Lisa, following me as I move across the room. But when I reach her office door, we’re no longer making eye contact.
Her eyes didn’t follow me.
I drop my hand and lean against the wall, watching as April walks back outside with a towel. She wipes Verity’s chin and then takes a small pillow from Verity’s lap and lifts her head, placing it between her shoulder and her cheek. With her head adjusted, she’s no longer staring into the window.
“Shit,” I whisper to no one.
I’m scared of a woman who can barely move and can’t even speak. A woman who can’t willingly turn her head to look at someone, much less make intentional eye contact.
I need water.
I open the office door, but let out a yelp when my cell phone rings behind me on the desk.
Dammit. I hate adrenaline. My pulse is racing, but I blow out a breath and try to calm down as I answer the phone. It’s an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Ashleigh?”
“This is she.”
“This is Donovan Baker from Creekwood apartments. You put in an application a few days ago?”
I’m relieved to have a distraction. I walk back over to the window, and the nurse has moved Verity’s chair so that I’m only looking at the back of her head now. “Yes, how can I help you?”
“I’m calling because the application you submitted was processed today. Unfortunately, there was a recent eviction that showed up in your name, so we can’t approve you for the apartment.”
Already? I just moved out a couple of days ago. “But my application was already approved with you guys. I’m supposed to move in next week.”
“Actually, you were only pre-approved. Your application wasn’t fully processed until today. We can’t approve applications with recent evictions. I hope you understand.”
I squeeze the back of my neck. I won’t get my money for another two weeks. “Please,” I say to him, trying not to sound as pathetic as I feel right now. “I’ve never been late on my rent until now. I was just hired for another job, and in two weeks, if you let me move in now, I can pay you an entire year’s rent. I swear.”
“You can always appeal the decision,” he says. “It might take a few weeks, but I’ve seen applications get approved due to extenuating circumstances.”
“I don’t have a few weeks. I already moved out of my last apartment.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll email you our decision, and at the bottom of the email, contact that number for an appeal. Have a good day, Ms. Ashleigh.”
He ends the call, but I still have the phone pressed to my ear as I squeeze my neck. I’m hoping I’ll wake up from this nightmare any second now. Thank you, Mother. What the hell am I going to do now?
There’s a soft knock on the office door. I spin around, startled again. I can’t deal with today. Jeremy is standing in the office entryway, looking at me with a face full of empathy.
I left the door open when my phone rang. He probably heard that entire conversation. I can tack mortified onto the list of adjectives that describe today.
I set my phone on Verity’s desk, then fall into her desk chair. “My life wasn’t always this much of a hot mess.”
He laughs a little, stepping into the room. “Neither was mine.”
I appreciate that comment. I look down at my phone. “It’s fine,” I say, spinning my phone around in a circle. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I can loan you money until your advance is processed through your agent. I’ll have to pull it from our mutual fund, but it can be here in three days.”
I have never been this embarrassed, and I know he can see it because I practically curl into myself as I lean forward on the desk and drop my face into my hands.
“That’s really sweet, but I’m not taking a loan from you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then chooses to take a seat on the couch. He sits casually, leaning forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “Then stay here until your advance hits your account. It’ll only be a week or two.” He looks around the office, seeing how much progress I haven’t made since I arrived yesterday. “We don’t mind. You aren’t in the way at all.”
I shake my head, but he interrupts.
“Lowen. This job you’ve taken on is not easy. I’d rather you spend too much time in here prepping for it than get back to New York tomorrow and realize you should have stayed longer.”
I do need more time. But two weeks in this house? With a woman who scares me, a manuscript I shouldn’t be reading, and a man I know way too many intimate details about?
It’s not a good idea. None of it is good.
I start to shake my head again, but he holds up a hand. “Stop being considerate. Stop being embarrassed. Just say alright.”
I look past him, at all the boxes lining the walls behind him. The things I haven’t even touched yet. And then I think about how, with two weeks in here, I would have time to read every book in her backlist, make notes on each of them, and possibly outline the three new ones.
I sigh, conceding with a little bit of relief. “Alright.”
He smiles a little, then stands up and walks toward the door.
“Thank you,” I say.
Jeremy turns back around and faces me. I wish I had let him walk out the door, because I swear I can see a trace of regret in his expression. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say, “You’re welcome,” or “No problem.” But he just closes his mouth and forces a smile, and then shuts the door behind him when he leaves.
•••
Jeremy told me earlier this afternoon that I needed to be outside before the sun disappeared behind the mountains. “You’ll see why Verity wanted an unobstructed view from her office.”
I brought one of her books with me to read on the back porch. There are about ten chairs to choose from, so I take a seat at a patio table. Jeremy and Crew are down by the water, tearing old pieces of wood out of their fishing dock. It’s cute, watching Crew grab the pieces of wood Jeremy’s handing to him. He carries them to a huge pile, then grabs another from his dad. Jeremy has to wait for him each time, because it takes Crew longer to dispose of the wood than it does for Jeremy to rip it out of the wooden frame. It proves how much patience he has as a father.
He reminds me a little of my father. He died when I was nine, but I’m not sure I ever saw him angry. Not even at my mother, with her prickly comments and frequent hot temper. I grew to resent that about him, though. Sometimes I perceived his patience as weakness when it came to her.
I watch Crew and Jeremy a little longer, in between attempts at finishing my chapter. But I’m finding it hard to comprehend anything because Jeremy took his shirt off a few minutes ago and, while I’ve seen him take his shirt off before, I’ve never seen him without an undershirt. His skin is slick from the sweat he’s worked up over the past two hours of being down at the dock. When he yanks at the wood with the hammer, his muscles stretch across his back, and I immediately recall the last chapter Verity wrote. There were so many intimate details about their sex life, and from what I read, it was very active. More so than any of my relationships have been.
It’s hard looking at him and not thinking about sex now. Not that I want to have sex with him. And not that I don’t. It’s just that, as a writer, I know he was her inspiration for several of the men in her books. And it makes me wonder if I need to view him as my inspiration as I tackle the rest of this series. I mean…it’s not the worst thing. Being forced to step into Verity’s shoes and visualize Jeremy for the next twenty-four months as I write.
The back door slams shut, and I tear my eyes away from Jeremy. April is standing on the patio, staring at me. Her gaze follows the path of mine, and then she cuts her eyes back to me. She saw. She saw me eyeing my new boss. Pathetic.
How long was she watching me stare at him? I want to cover my face with this book, but instead, I smile like I was doing nothing wrong. I mean, I wasn’t.
“I’m heading out,” April says. “I put Verity in bed and turned on her television. She’s had dinner and her meds, in case he asks.”
I don’t know why she’s telling me this, since I’m not in charge. “Okay. Have a good night.”
She doesn’t tell me to have a good night in return. She walks back into the house and lets the door fall shut again. A minute later, I hear the hum of her engine as her car pulls out of the driveway, disappearing between the trees. I glance back at Jeremy and Crew, and Jeremy is ripping up another piece of wood.
Crew is staring at me, standing near the pile of discarded fishing dock. He smiles and waves. I lift my hand to wave back, but curl my fingers into a soft fist when I realize Crew isn’t waving at me. He’s looking above me, to the right.
He’s looking up at Verity’s bedroom window.
I spin around and look up, just as her bedroom curtain falls shut. I drop her book onto the patio table, knocking over my bottle of water in the process. I stand up and take three steps farther back to get a better look at the window, but there’s no one there. My mouth falls open. I look back at Crew, but he’s retreating back to the dock to grab another piece of wood from Jeremy.
I’m seeing things.
But why was he waving at her window? If she wasn’t there, why was he waving?
It doesn’t make sense. If she was looking out her window, Crew would have had a much bigger reaction, considering she hasn’t been able to speak or walk on her own since her wreck.
Or maybe he doesn’t understand that his mother walking to her window would be a miracle. He’s only five.
I look down at the book, now covered in water, and pick it up and shake the liquid from it. I blow out an unsteady breath because it feels like I’ve been on edge all day. I’m sure I’m still a little shaken from thinking she was staring at me earlier, and that’s why I assumed I saw the curtain move.
Part of me wants to forget it and lock myself in the office and work the rest of the night. But I know I won’t be able to if I don’t check on her. Make sure I didn’t see what I thought I saw.
I lay the book open on the patio table to dry and make my way into the house, toward the stairs. I’m quiet. I’m not sure why I feel the need to be quiet as I work to sneak a peek at her. I know she probably can’t process much, so what would it matter if I made my approach known? Even still, I remain quiet as I make my way up the stairs, down the hallway, and to her bedroom door.
It’s slightly ajar, and I can see the window that overlooks the backyard. I press my palm to the door and begin to open it. I’m biting my bottom lip as I peek my head in.
Verity is in her bed, eyes closed, hands to her sides on top of the blanket.
I breathe a quiet sigh of relief, and then feel even more relief when I open the door a little wider, revealing an oscillating fan moving back and forth from Verity’s bed to the window overlooking the backyard. Every time the fan points toward the window, the curtain moves.
My sigh is louder this time. It was the damn fan. Get a grip, Lowen.
I turn off the fan because it’s a little too chilly in here for it. I’m surprised April left it on to begin with. I cut my eyes toward Verity again, but she’s still asleep. When I get to the door, I pause. I look at the dresser—at the remote sitting on top of it. I look up at the TV mounted to the wall.
It isn’t on.
April said she turned on the TV before she left, but the TV is not on.
I don’t even look back at Verity. I pull the door shut and rush down the stairs.
I’m not going back up there again. I’m scaring myself. The most helpless person in this house is the one I’m the most afraid of. It doesn’t even make sense. She wasn’t staring at me through the office window. She wasn’t standing at her window, looking at Crew. And she didn’t turn off her own TV. It’s probably on a timer, or April accidentally hit the power button twice and assumed she turned it on.
Regardless of the fact that I’m aware this is all in my head, I still walk back to Verity’s office, close the door, and pick up another chapter of her autobiography. Maybe reading more from her point of view will reassure me that she’s harmless and I need to chill the fuck out.
