E

very single muscle in my body tenses, my breathing becoming erratic as I struggle to see anything past those words: pretty girl. Because immediately it’s his voice I hear in my head crooning it, that gravelly timbre that accompanies me every night. It swirls around me, chokes me, and I swallow hard—bite back the screams that want to escape but don’t.

Instead, I wheeze. It’s the only sound that comes out as reality merges with my dream. For a few seconds, I’m there again and watching the stillness—how the objects glimmer in the darkness, beckoning me to stay.

The blood sings. It also calls to me.

And more than anything, that scares me. Those two words cause my heart to clench while my body betrays me, and I sway as my fingers tighten on the piece of paper. Where I squeeze, it crumbles, which causes my finger to move and expose the two extra letters I’d missed in my freak out.

L. Y.

Pretty girly.

Happy birthday, pretty girly.

Jesus, I’m a mess. And a bit crazy.

Batshit.

Flipping the paper over, I see the familiar stationery and a small laugh slips through my parted lips. It’s not in amusement, but concern. How did I miss her being here? But more importantly, how did she get in?

“It was just Elise.” This causes a different case of unease to settle in the pit of my stomach. That’s not the norm for her. Not for someone who needs acknowledgement over her every deed. Moreover, for as much as she annoys me with her pushy need to micromanage and I-know-better-because-I’m-older-by eight-years mentality—trying to make my career hers—she’s the only person in Seattle I consider a friend. “Crap! The key. I gave her a key for emergency situations, and she must’ve used it to surprise me.”

I don’t know how to feel about that, but breathing becomes easier. Everything does within a few minutes, and after tossing her birthday wishes aside, I crawl up the bed to lie beside Mr. Pickles while ignoring the cuts on my feet. I ignore the blood more than likely staining my sheets while his small body snuggles closer, his cold nose rubbing against my arm.

“Momma’s being paranoid again, buddy.” He doesn’t answer, but he does lick my forearm. “I know. I know.” A small headbutt comes next. “A good night’s sleep would do me wonders.” This earns me a grunt. “Double my dose, you say?”

His silence is response enough, and I half turn, blindly opening the bedside drawer where a bottle of Melatonin and the meds my doctor prescribed sit.

Both are for sleeping. Both will knock me out, but the one I pop the top of will leave me shaky tomorrow. Will make me nauseous, but I dry-swallow two and flip the consequences off.

I’ll deal with it whenever I wake up.

“Calm your breathing and empty your thoughts,” I whisper to the silent room and close my eyes, forcing myself to ignore the painting and the dream I’ll more than likely fall right back into. “One sheep. Two sheep. Three...”

The more I count, the more I begin to settle deeper into my sheets, welcoming the warmth as the minutes tick by and my conscious mind finally begins to rest. One minute I’m awake, and the next I’m sitting inside a mindless abyss where nothing happens.

No dreams. No voices.

Just rest.

An obnoxious sound pulls me from my sleep. It’s close and chirpy and stops after a few minutes, leaving me in that half-awake, half-asleep state where it can go either way. But then the damn thing starts again, and I groan, knowing the owner of the ringtone she set for herself won’t stop bothering me.

“What?” I say, eyes closed after blindly answering. There’s a lot of noise in the background, people having multiple conversations and all centered around one thing: coffee. Not that it surprises me in Seattle where we are all addicted slaves to the roasted bean.

“You’re late.” Elise’s voice comes through as annoyed and I’m not comprehending the why. “Seriously, Gabriella. How could you forget the meeting I set up with the gallery owner on Pioneer Square?”

“Easy. I didn’t approve of it.” Her snarky tone rubs me wrong, especially after her coming into my home without permission. That key was for emergencies only, not trespassing as she pleases. “Now, I’ll be going back to sleep, and I expect an apology next time we see each other. Quit pushing me.”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out low and meek, something my friend is not. “Pissing you off wasn’t my intention, but I know you like his space and wanted to show there. They have an opening coming up, Gabby, and I want to help you book it before we start the birthday celebrations.”

A harsh breath escapes me and I rub a hand down my face, sitting up now that the last dredges of sleep have evaporated. “Okay.”

“Okay?” The hopefulness in her tone makes me feel a bit guilty. “Because I’ll stall to buy you some time if—”

“The usual place?” I cut her off before quickly pulling my phone away to see the time. It’s a little after ten in the morning. I haven’t had six hours of continuous sleep in so long. “Or the brunch place, Tilikum?”

“Tilikum.” She’s giddy. Way too bubbly this morning, and I’m wondering how many mimosas she’s downed. “I’m craving Eggs Benedict.”

“Got it.” Without conscious thought, my eyes flick to the painting and skim across it; I’m calm while doing so. Today, right this second, there’s no accelerated breathing or sweaty palms. No full-body chills. Was everything just a lack of sleep?

“Gabby, you there?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in thirty. Keep whoever comes from the gallery busy until I arrive.”

“You’re the best!” she squeals, and I can’t stop the laugh from bursting through on my end. Hers is excitement, while mine is relief. “Thank you, babes. I know you put up with my annoying habits and humor me with all the shows, but you really are my best friend. I’m like this because I love and believe in you.”

“I know. It’s why I haven’t fired you from this fake position yet.” Mr. Pickles chooses that moment to stretch, an annoyed grunt escaping his small body before jumping from the bed and going to lay in a plush doggy bed I keep in here for him. “Which reminds me...we need to talk.”

“Uh oh.”

“You could say that.” Placing the cell phone on the nightstand, I press the speakerphone option and stretch. My muscles feel tight, more than likely from staying in one position for the last few hours, but after a bit they give way to a delicious burn. “But it can wait until after the meeting. See you soon.”

“Okay, but—” Elise is cut off by the ending of the call.

“Now, what to wear when you don’t feel like schmoozing someone and don’t want it to show?” I muse out loud, padding over to my walk-in closet, and then pause because sitting atop the catch-all chair I keep near the door is a gift bag. This also keeps me from checking the cuts on my feet that feel dry, burn a bit from the stretching of skin, but are no longer bleeding, thank God. There’s enough I need to clean before leaving. But instead of doing that, my focus is on the bag with black and gold polka dots with a large bow in a velvet-like material. “What the hell?” Elise. That sneaky little pain in my butt.

My annoyance with her is still there, but I can’t deny that I’m smiling at the gesture. I have no living family. No siblings that I know of. No one to celebrate the small and big moments.

No one but her, and I’m enjoying the feeling of being cared for too much at the moment.

In the light of day and after a few hours of solid sleep, I’m beginning to see the gesture for what it is: my friend is celebrating something that I’ve always ignored in my own loneliness.

“I’m a jerk.” The guilt is hitting me now, too. Her pushiness and no-boundary personality isn’t coming from a malicious place, and I need to remember this. Be thankful for it. “Wonder what she got me...”

My legs carry me over to the bag and I pry off the bow with care, wanting to keep it. It’s pretty, delicate, and the all-black tone shimmers in the soft-white lighting.

Then, I pry apart the tape and pull out what feels like clothes wrapped in tissue paper the same colors as the bag. They’re thin and very lightweight. Feels like something I’d normally never wear, but I find myself wanting to today.

It feels right. This garment makes me giggle, and I’ve yet to see it. Since when do I giggle?

Tearing the tissue off, I gasp at the pretty little number in my hands. It’s blood-red, leaning a bit more toward a wine color, and in lace with spaghetti straps—a slip dress, and will easily fall to mid-thigh. This type of attire is so far removed from my day-to-day look—almost scarily so—yet I’m nodding as I finger the bottom edge detail where the material is cut to follow the pattern and not a straight line around.

This gives it dimension. Makes it stand out as flirty and fun.

Moreover, I find myself not finding a reason to chuck it toward the back of my closet. I want to put it on.