Lost in Me, Page 8

  Chapter Four

  Almost perfect.

  I’m surveying my life as if from the outside, and that’s how it looks to me. Almost perfect. Sure, I have these bruises and I’m banged up from my fall, but everything else? My apartment. My business. My body. Max…

  He looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world. And I’m wearing his ring. I might not remember how my life got like this, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it this way.

  I wander around my apartment, feeling a bit like a rude visitor peeping in on someone else’s life. The kitchen is clean, the refrigerator full of water bottles, apples, and carrot sticks. The freezer isn’t much better, with little more than frozen berries and chicken breasts, and the pantry is sparse. Mom brought me a half-gallon of milk and some fresh fruit, but I still need to go grocery shopping. I find a notepad on the counter and start a list:

  Grocery shopping: Bread, milk, cereal, pasta

  I stop writing and stare at the list I’ve made. These were foods I ate before. What do I eat now? I’ll have to be careful about what I buy. I’m sure I worked hard to lose this weight.

  My mind goes to the stairs again. The fall. Max’s words about low blood sugar and me forgetting to eat. Was that really all there was to it, or did I have to live on the meager basics in my kitchen to get this thin?

  I shake away the thought. If I’d developed unhealthy habits, my sisters would have put a stop to it. Anyway, however I got here, I don’t want to ruin my progress. Especially if we’re planning a wedding.

  A thrill runs through me at the thought. A wedding. I’m marrying Max.

  But as I go to return the notepad to the basket, a small slip of paper falls out.

  It’s a prescription for an antidepressant. And it’s dated one week ago. Why would I need that?

  My phone buzzes on the counter, and I tuck the script into the bottom of the basket for safekeeping before grabbing my cell. I don’t recognize the number on the display, and I’m not in the mood to chat anyway, so I send the call to voicemail.

  As I wander the living room area, I spot a laptop on the desk in the corner. I immediately open it, ready to peek into the last year of my life the way a stranger might—social media. A dialogue box pops up on the screen and asks for my password. I tap in my birthday, but it doesn’t take. I try my initials and my birthday. Still nothing. Those have always been my go-to passwords. I’ll have to ask Max if he knows what it is. Maybe I used our first date or his pet name for me.

  The bedroom is tidy, save for a basket of unfolded laundry in one corner. The closet isn’t overly full, but I have a nice collection of jeans and shirts in my new smaller size and a slew of black workout capris and tank tops.

  It’s a small apartment so it doesn’t take me long to see everything. I should take a shower and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I want to learn all I can about my business and see what I need to do to catch up from my hospital stay. The idea of the water hitting my bruises with any pressure at all is more than I can bear, so I run a bath instead and sigh as I sink into the warm water. I release my hair from its clip and let it fall down my back.

  When it’s just me and the lulling beat of the water pouring into the tub, I let myself think about Max and what we might be doing if my mother hadn’t come over tonight.

  I skim my fingertips over my breasts and imagine him stripping off my shirt and releasing my heavy breasts from my bra. I squeeze my nipples with the thought of Max taking them into his mouth. Men have always liked my breasts, and I love having them played with, squeezed, sucked. Would he have kept me in his lap, his hand stroking me through my jeans as he sucked and played? Or would he have taken me to my bedroom so he could lay me down and explore my body?

  My mind latches on to that image—a bare-chested Max hovering over me in bed, unzipping my jeans and dragging them down my hips as he sucked my nipple into his mouth, laved it with his tongue.

  These aren’t new fantasies, but knowing Max is mine now heightens their intensity. This “what if” could just as well be our “next time.” Remembering how good it felt to have his hand between my legs and his breath in my hair, I’m already close when I slip my hand into the hot water and find my swollen flesh. I’m so wrapped in the fantasy that the hand isn’t mine anymore. It’s Max’s. His hot mouth is open against my neck, and all he has to do is slip a finger inside me—God, yes, like that. I imagine his hand, his hot breath at my ear, his groan. I cling to the thought and I come.

  After I wash my hair, dry off, and put on my pajamas, I lock the door and pad to bed with my phone in my hand. When I climb in, I pull up the text messages on my phone and enter Max’s name.

  Hanna: I hate that you had to leave when you did.

  Max: You and me both. Are you okay?

  Hanna: I am now. Took a bath and imagined how things could have gone if my mom hadn’t shown up.

  Max: Want to tell me about it?

  Hanna: The bath? It was what you’d expect. Hot. Wet.

  Max: You’re killing me.

  Hanna: That’ll teach you to choose walking my mom to her car over finishing things with me.

  Max: Lesson learned.