Page 67 of Captivating Anika

Tuesday morning after the mini meltdowns—both mine and hers—we were able to salvage what was left of the morning. We narrowly made it to the Arrow’s Edge compound to meet with the insurance adjuster, who confirmed the Miata is a write-off. We bumped into Paco, Anika’s friend Lindsey’s stepfather, who’d heard about the trouble at the salon and offered to come back with us and not only install a few more cameras, but fix the door to the apartment as well.

By the time Anika’s first appointment arrived that afternoon, the additional cameras were already installed. He was still working on the doorframe when I left to sign the lease and pick up the keys from the realtor before I headed out to the farm.

That’s what I’ve been doing the past few days, dropping Anika off at the salon—where she is never alone—and driving to the farm to box up some more shit. This morning I took the old truck instead of the Suburban, because today I’m going back and forth hauling boxes, and I can fit more in the open bed of the pickup.

I stopped in at the fire station yesterday afternoon before picking up Anika to see how things were. The guys were out, but I had a good chat with the chief, who brought up a few interesting things I can’t wait to discuss with Anika once things settle down.

I was just about to leave when my crew returned from a vehicle fire just north of town, so I spent a few minutes chatting with them. When I mentioned I was moving, a few of the guys—including Bodhi—offered to help. I wasn’t going to say no to that.

My phone rings as I get behind the wheel. It’s Anika.

“Hey, Sweetheart, everything okay?”

“I have a favor to ask.”

I note she doesn’t answer my question.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“I hate to ask, but is there any chance you could pick up a few groceries? I’m running out of a few things here and at the house, and I don’t think I’ll have the energy later.”

“Still bad?”

She’s had a pretty nasty flare-up the past few days, making it difficult for her to get out of bed, but she pushes through every morning, and muscles her way through each day. I’m not sure how long she’ll be able to force herself, or if she even should. But I’ve decided to stand by and monitor instead of intervene, which I instinctively want to do.

She sets high standards for herself. Higher than for anyone else. It’s what makes her successful, but I’m afraid it’s also what eventually is going to cost her in health and, as a result, force her into a situation she has no choice in or control over.

It’s another topic on my list of things to talk about, but now’s not the time. It wouldn’t be fair to bring it up when she’s at her most vulnerable, desperately—and quite literally—trying to keep her feet under her.

“I’m okay as long as I keep moving. I stop, and everything seizes up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Meh, it is what it is,” she states matter-of-factly, clearly indicating she’s done with this topic, so I move on.

“I’m just leaving the farm with my last load of boxes. I was planning to unload them and head over to the City Market anyway. Just picking up some basics for the new place, so it’s no problem grabbing whatever you need. Shoot me a list.”

“Thank you. I’ll do it right now.”

“Okay. See you at six.”

One of the benefits of taking over the boxes bit by bit is that I can process them as I bring them in. Of course not everything, some boxes are in the appropriate room, waiting for the furniture they have to go in or on. But, for instance, I have my bathroom cupboards done, towels and sheets are in the linen closet, and my tools and sports equipment are stored in the small garage.

This last load is mostly kitchen stuff, which I’ll hopefully have time to unpack and organize in the cupboards before I have to run to the grocery store.

I didn’t bring much, mainly because I don’t really need much. I’ve left a lot for Franco, who was happy with it. Since my mother died, I thinned out a lot of stuff and furniture already, but some things felt like they belonged to the house. I left those behind.

I manage to put away all of these last boxes and cut them down, stacking them flat. I’ll bring those back on Sunday, Franco can use them for the farm.

I’m about to load the empties in the truck when Evans calls.

“I’m giving you a heads-up, and it’s up to you what you do with it.”

“That’s rather cryptic,” I point out.

“We think we may have found her. Kim Cooper,” he adds to clarify.

I knew who he was talking about, and I can also guess the news isn’t going to be good.