Page 146 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

sydney

The landlord comes by with the maintenance man and changes my locks on Monday. He also brings me a stick to fit in the window with the fire escape, which is meant to stop it from being opened.

Kind of him.

He doesn’t mention that I’m still in my pajamas, thick sweatpants, fuzzy socks and an oversized hoodie. Not Penn’s, but one that Carter must’ve left at some point. It smells like him, and I can’t help but occasionally draw up the collar over my nose and inhale deeply.

After the landlord and maintenance guy leaves, I crawl into bed. I’m not interested in television, but I put a podcast on my phone and let it play from my nightstand.

Sleep seems easier than existing, so that’s what I do.

The only time I leave my bedroom is to go to the bathroom or refill my water bottle.

My appetite is nonexistent. Monday slips into Tuesday, which in turn seems to melt into Wednesday.

I don’t feel bad.

I’m not worried about the missing days.

I just… don’t really care.

forty-two

sydney

I ignore my phone and lie in bed, alternating between sleep and half-fevered reality. I scribble in my journal when I’m able, when I need to get thoughts out of my head. The hurried words all blend together, and I’m not sure if I’m actually writing or just letting words bleed onto the page.

At some point, I move from my bed to the floor. I consider inching under the bed.

I flick the knife Carter gave me open and closed. I press the tip into my finger, then the underside of my wrist. I almost always wear a watch there… it’s nothing to drag the blade down and slice into my skin.

The pain is refreshing. With it comes feeling in my limbs, a spark of electricity that seems to wake me up.

But only for a moment.

I slip out to the bathroom and run my wrist under the water. My eyelids are heavy. It takes effort to keep them open and watch the pink swirl down the drain. A Band-Aid and my watch in place, I drift back into my bedroom.

My phone sits facedown on my desk. It died yesterday, I think. It went quiet in the middle of a podcast about farming. I had to turn it upside down to hide how much it was lighting up. Notifications, maybe tags from that stupid gossip page. Texts from my friends, from Penn and Carter.

I don’t know if Oliver texted or called, but thinking about him makes the numbness return. It’s a blanket I draw around my shoulders to protect myself. It tightens around my limbs, slips up my spine.

That’s okay.

I crawl to my nest of blankets on the floor and curl into a ball, and I will everything away.

forty-three

penn

When I can’t get Sydney’s window open, I call for backup.

Carter arrives in short order, meeting me outside the tall brownstone with keys in hand. He scowls at me, but I ignore it and motion for him to take the lead. Up three flights of stairs, with me breathing down his back, until we get to her door.

“You couldn’t get her window open?” he asks in a tone that says, Are you new?

I sigh. “No, it’s blocked.”

“Blocked, how?” He sticks the key in the lock, but it doesn’t turn. “Huh.”