Page 91 of Made for You
“Did you see the medical bills?”
“We can rent it out,” I say, gripping the counter behind me. Maybe nothing is for keeps, but I can’t let that condo go. It’s the reminder of those six mostly happy, secret weeks between the end of filming and “After the Proposal.” And more importantly, the promise of a future after Rita. I literally go to sleep every night dreaming of that space and how it will feel to return.
“I got fired.”
“What?”
“This administrative stuff—I suck at it. It was a pity job anyway. My boss told me I can go back into sales, but not from Eauverte.”
No no no.
“The commute to Indy is only two hours,” I say, my voice calm despite the frantic beating of my heart. “Get your old job back, Josh. I can stay here and take care of Rita. You could even spend weeknights up there. I can—”
“You don’t get it, do you?” He crosses the space between us in two vicious steps. “She’s not some annoying sick old lady to me like she is to you. This is my mother. I can’t leave.” He’s so close, I can see the heave of his chest. The little shaving nick on his chin. “I’m stuck, Julia. I’m stuck in hell and there’s no exit door. Do you get that?” There’s a vein in his neck. I watch it throb. I imagine it’s a river that carries his blood and his anger all mixed together like a thick, red poison.
I swallow. Nod. “Of course. Yes.”
I’m readjusting as fast as I can. Josh, jobless. Our money from filming, history. And now the Indy condo, gone, to fund this. Our presence here with the woman who means the world to Josh and hates me with all the energy of her final days.
An anti-Synth billboard went up a few weeks ago just down the road. Some church drivel basically saying we don’t have souls. It felt like a joke at first. I literally laughed.
I’m not laughing today.
This isn’t the end, I try to remind myself. After Rita passes, Josh and I can scrape our way to a new beginning. We can rebuild. It’ll just take a little more time.
“Is something burning?” says Josh.
I whirl toward the oven. Smoke is billowing out. I feel my face crumple as a violent sob racks my body. I press a hand to my mouth to stop myself, because this is not the time, Julia, this is not the time.
Josh is suddenly behind me, hands on my waist, turning me to face him.
“Hey,” he says, his expression more tender than I’ve seen it in a long time. “Let it burn. It doesn’t matter.”
“Okay,” I gasp, so embarrassed that, of all the horrible moments of the past few days, the one that’s gotten me is the chicken burning.
Josh folds me into his arms. “We’ll get pizza.”
“I don’t want you to be stuck in hell,” I say, my body shaking in his hold. “I want to make this better.”
And then I cry into his shower-damp T-shirt. As awful as I feel, there’s a sweetness to this release. And a sweetness to the fact that Josh gets tender when I get weak. Just like in LA after the attack.
“You do make everything better, Julia,” he murmurs when I start to calm. “You do. We’ll get through this.” His voice takes on the slightest hint of teasing. “It’s not over ’til it’s over, right? And we’re not done until we’re dead.”
I have to smile, because he hasn’t teased me like this since... God, I honestly don’t remember.
“It’s not over ’til it’s over,” I repeat, smiling through the last of my tears and gently bumping his nose with mine. “We’re not done until we’re dead.”
NOW
Moment of truth. I pull the wig over the cap. Adjust it. Slip on the thick-framed glasses. Step back, adjusting my weight gingerly to avoid my swollen left ankle, and survey my new look in the mirror of the small motel bathroom.
Despite the circumstances, I have to admit some pleasure at the transformation. With the long brown straight hair and the thick bangs falling nearly to my eyes, I look like a starving grad student with a severe vitamin D deficiency. No one would recognize me as Julia Walden.
“Lily Paddington,” I practice out loud, combing my hair over my shoulders, fluffing my bangs. “My name is Lily Paddington, from Saint Louis, Missouri.”
I glance at the time, as I’ve been doing, oh, every two minutes since I woke up. It’s almost ten in the morning, which is when I’m supposed to call Ally back. In the hour since I woke up to the knock that delivered Christi’s suitcase of supplies, I’ve gone through both packs of premeasured coffee grounds for the miniature motel room coffee maker. I’ve pumped twice in the past hour, too, though it hasn’t brought the relief I hoped for. Even with repeated self-massage and a hot shower, the knot in my breast has just gotten harder and more painful. My ankle is getting worse, too, now swollen to twice its normal size. I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask Christi to include painkillers along with the wig and the phone and the other stuff. At least it’s my left ankle, so I can still drive.
The clock turns from 9:59 to 10:00. Hopping out of the bathroom on my right foot, I settle on the bed, carefully stretching out my left leg. I’m trembling from some mixture of caffeine and adrenaline as I punch in Ally’s number. Even now, I want to keep on believing that Andy and Eden are on my side. That somehow, they lied to protect me. That two of my most trusted people aren’t the villains of this nightmare.