Copyright 2018 by Colleen Hoover

has to be hollow. It’s disappointing, knowing this is his life now. Caring for an
egg shell with no yolk.
That was harsh.
I’m not trying to be harsh. I’m just… I don’t know. I feel like it would have
been better for everyone if she hadn’t survived the wreck. I immediately feel
guilty for thinking that, but it reminds me of the last few months I spent caring
for my mother. I know my mother would have preferred death over being as
severely incapacitated as the cancer made her. But that was just a few months of
her life...of my life. This is Jeremy’s whole life now. Caring for a wife who is no
longer his wife. Tied to a home that’s no longer a home. And I can’t imagine this
is how Verity would want him to live. I can’t imagine this is how she would
want to live. She can’t even play with or speak to her own child.
I pray she isn’t in there, for her own sake. I can’t imagine how difficult it
would be if her mind were still there, but the brain damage had left her with no
physical way to express herself, robbing her of any ability to react or interact or
verbalize what she’s thinking.
I lift my head again.
She’s staring straight at me.
I jump up, and the desk chair moves backward across the wood floor. Verity
is looking right at me through the window, her head turned toward me, her eyes
locked on mine. I bring my hand up to my mouth and step back; I feel
threatened.
I want out of her line of sight, so I creep to my left, toward the office door.
For a moment, I can’t escape her gaze. She’s the Mona Lisa, following me as I
move across the room. But when I reach her office door, we’re no longer making
eye contact.
Her eyes didn’t follow me.
I drop my hand and lean against the wall, watching as April walks back
outside with a towel. She wipes Verity’s chin and then takes a small pillow from
Verity’s lap and lifts her head, placing it between her shoulder and her cheek.
With her head adjusted, she’s no longer staring into the window.
“Shit,” I whisper to no one.
I’m scared of a woman who can barely move and can’t even speak. A
woman who can’t willingly turn her head to look at someone, much less make
intentional eye contact.

---

I need water.
I open the office door, but let out a yelp when my cell phone rings behind me
on the desk.
Dammit. I hate adrenaline. My pulse is racing, but I blow out a breath and try
to calm down as I answer the phone. It’s an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Ashleigh?”
“This is she.”
“This is Donovan Baker from Creekwood apartments. You put in an
application a few days ago?”
I’m relieved to have a distraction. I walk back over to the window, and the
nurse has moved Verity’s chair so that I’m only looking at the back of her head
now. “Yes, how can I help you?”
“I’m calling because the application you submitted was processed today.
Unfortunately, there was a recent eviction that showed up in your name, so we
can’t approve you for the apartment.”
Already? I just moved out a couple of days ago. “But my application was
already approved with you guys. I’m supposed to move in next week.”
“Actually, you were only pre-approved. Your application wasn’t fully
processed until today. We can’t approve applications with recent evictions. I
hope you understand.”
I squeeze the back of my neck. I won’t get my money for another two weeks.
“Please,” I say to him, trying not to sound as pathetic as I feel right now. “I’ve
never been late on my rent until now. I was just hired for another job, and in two
weeks, if you let me move in now, I can pay you an entire year’s rent. I swear.”
“You can always appeal the decision,” he says. “It might take a few weeks,
but I’ve seen applications get approved due to extenuating circumstances.”
“I don’t have a few weeks. I already moved out of my last apartment.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll email you our decision, and at the bottom of the
email, contact that number for an appeal. Have a good day, Ms. Ashleigh.”
He ends the call, but I still have the phone pressed to my ear as I squeeze my
neck. I’m hoping I’ll wake up from this nightmare any second now. Thank you,