1
mckenzie
Water peltsmy closed eyelids as I tilt my face toward the spray. I used to like mornings. When I was a kid, living on my grandpa’s farm, I’d leave my bedroom curtains wide open and use the sun as my alarm clock.
That feels like a lifetime ago now.
My arms hang at my sides like pieces of driftwood, dead weight. I could fall asleep like this, upright in the shower, feet planted on the mosaic tile. But it’s too late for that. I lost my chance at a few extra winks when I watched the sun come up between episodes of a TV show I can’t even recall the name of.
It’s been like this nearly every night for two weeks. I crawl into bed and fall asleep just fine. Then, around two or three in the morning, I’m either jolted from sleep by the sound of my own screams, or wrenched from a nightmare by my best friend shaking me back to consciousness. Once I’m awake, I have a hard time drifting back to sleep, so I reach for my phone. I’ve binged entire seasons of shows in the early hours of the morning. Baking competitions, over-the-top comedies, that fantasy series with the hot white-haired guy who grunts a lot.
It’s a struggle to keep my eyes open as I towel off and get dressed for work. My gray slacks are easy enough to slip into, but I almost walk out of my bedroom with my beige crew-neck top on inside out.
On my way downstairs, I pass the main bedroom and stop short when I hear my best friend say, “I think eight coloring books should be more than enough.”
I peer through the doorway at Hollywood, seated at her makeup desk, running a straightening iron through her long, red hair. Her real name is Holly, but I’ve been calling her Hollywood since we were kids.
“We can always cut pages out and make copies,” she says. “I’ll pick up extra markers, too.”
“Forget it. You’re not buying supplies for your own baby shower.” I recognize the voice on speakerphone: Teagan Parkes, Hollywood’sotherbest friend. If I said that out loud, Holly would no doubt correct me by insisting she only has one best friend, and Teagan is my friend, too.
“But I really don’t mind—”
“No buts,” Teagan says. “Your only job is to show up at my house and have a good time.”
“Fine, I will.” Hollywood yawns into the back of her palm.
“Bad night?”
“Yeah...” she says, and I tense. “Heartburn again.”
Guilt floats to the surface of my mind like a bad egg in a bowl of water. I appreciate her protecting my privacy, but we both know I’m the reason my pregnant friend didn’t sleep well last night.
I continue making my way downstairs. As soon as I enter the kitchen, Hollywood’s husband, Cal, hands me a mug of coffee with cream and sugar.
“Morning,” he says, in his thick Southern drawl. “How’d you sleep?”
By that, he means, did I fall back to sleep after I startled him and his wife awake, screaming bloody murder at two in the morning?
“Like a newborn. You should try it sometime. It’ll be good practice for when the baby comes.”
Cal chuckles. “I’ll pass. I’m banking as much sleep as I can over the next three months.”
“I don’t think it works like that.” I sip my coffee. Cal’s been a good friend to me. In fact, his whole circle of friends—Austin, Mike, Teagan’s husband, Jonah, and Jonah’s sister, Mary—have welcomed Holly and me into their fold with open arms.
I pop four slices of wheat bread into the toaster. This has been our morning routine since the three of us started living together. Cal wakes up first and makes the coffee, I pour the cereal or make the toast, and Hollywood packs our lunches every night so she can use the extra time to do her makeup and hair before she heads to work at the salon
I’m so fucking proud of her for following her dreams of becoming a stylist. She’s amazing at it. I would know; she used to do my hair and makeup all the time, back when we lived together at the motel.
“Same dream?” Cal asks me. He doesn’t normally press me for answers, but I know he’s worried about Hollywood not getting enough sleep, especially right now.
I nod. It is always the same dream, with only minor deviations: it’s nighttime, and someone or something is chasing me through the woods. I assume thesomeoneis Hoyt Renier, the man who tried to murder me two years ago.
But sometimes it feels like it could be someone else...
Whoever it is, I know they’ll do something terrible if they catch me. So I run as fast as I can, for as long as I can, until I inevitably stumble. I wake up before he gets his hands on me, either alone in bed, screaming and crying, or to Hollywood telling me I’m having a nightmare.
I can tell Cal wants to say something else, but he turns his attention to Hollywood as soon as she enters the kitchen.