Forever Checking (Checked Series Book 3) by Jennifer Jamelli Page B
Authors: Jennifer Jamelli
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behind my shower curtain nine times, looking for murderers (and for Judy).
I’ve picked off all of my nail polish. I’ve tried to make the television chef’s voice turn into white noise. It hasn’t worked. He keeps talking about gourmet course options for dinner parties. He won’t stop.
I’ve mentally run through tonight’s text messages three zagillionfatrillion times.
Him: How did therapy go today?
Me: Well.
Just well. Not Well, it was pretty suckful —which would’ve been a much more honest answer.
Him: I’ll get the box of materials from you tomorrow.
I figured he would. Figured he’d be checking up on me. So all of my lying and cheating and covering up was not done in vain.
Me: Okay.
Him: Speaking of tomorrow, are you free tomorrow night after class?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Let’s meet to discuss today’s assignments—and also so I can cook you dinner. I’ll pick you up and bring you to my house. Does this sound okay?
Me: Sure.
Him: All right. I’ll be waiting for you at your house after your class. Have a good night.
Me: Good night.
He never mentioned a specific therapy-related activity for tomorrow. Does that mean that we are going to try blood work again at his house?
Why else would we go to his house? I’ve never been there before. I don’t even know where it is. Why now?
UGH. He says he wants to meet to talk about today’s therapy progress. When there really wasn’t any progress.
So I’m probably going to have to lie to him. In person. Face-to-face.
This blows.
Chapter 8
day four (but really day nine)
1:03 A.M.
In bed. NOT sleeping.
{Katy Perry. “ Wide Awake. ”}
2:03 A.M.
Still not sleeping. Thinking. Sweating.
{Up this hour—Elvis Presley with “ Judy. ”}
3:03 A.M.
Sticking to my sheets. Hair matted on my pillow. Heartbeat irregular.
{Green Day. “ Basket Case .” Over and over and over.}
3:33 A.M.
{Taylor Swift takes over with “ Shake It Off .”}
You can do this, Callie. You can do this. You can go to his house. You can handle whatever happens. Even if Judy—
{Lily Allen tears in with “ Never Gonna Happen ” and—}
And I’m gonna—
OhmyGod.
4:52 A.M.
Back in bed. Done throwing up. For now. Done showering. For now.
Still thanking God that I made it to the bathroom, to the toilet.
Still thinking. And sweating. Heart still pumping with odd, erratic beats.
Still don’t think I can do this. I can’t do this. I can’t.
It was too much before. Before Judy. Before the tourniquet. Before the needle that may or may not actually have been one hundred percent disease free—because who would really know for sure? Maybe someone involved in packaging it pricked himself or herself accidentally. Or—maybe on purpose. Maybe because he or she has…or had…some awful disease and was mad and wanted to make other people suffer.
Oh my God. And now those diseases, that person’s diseases, are just waiting to be injected into my arm when Judy—
Stomach turning. Back of throat starting to—
Running.
6:01 A.M.
Still in the shower. Another post throw up, post clean up shower.
What am I doing? Why am I allowing everything to get so out of control?
His eyes, his sad eyes, appear in my head. Blue. Tragic.
Why do you keep making me think about things that I shouldn’t be thinking about? Why do you keep making me throw up? Why do you keep trying to fix something that can’t be fixed? Why do you keep trying to fix me?
Why do I keep letting you try?
{“ Because I Love You (The Postman Song). ” Stevie B. sneaks in, singing. I almost can’t hear him over the shower water. Almost.}
9:20 A.M.
Morning routine finished. Dressed for the day. Back in bed. In a daze. So very tired. Still can’t stop thinking.
I don’t want to do this day. Not at all. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go to class later. I don’t want to go to his house
I’ve picked off all of my nail polish. I’ve tried to make the television chef’s voice turn into white noise. It hasn’t worked. He keeps talking about gourmet course options for dinner parties. He won’t stop.
I’ve mentally run through tonight’s text messages three zagillionfatrillion times.
Him: How did therapy go today?
Me: Well.
Just well. Not Well, it was pretty suckful —which would’ve been a much more honest answer.
Him: I’ll get the box of materials from you tomorrow.
I figured he would. Figured he’d be checking up on me. So all of my lying and cheating and covering up was not done in vain.
Me: Okay.
Him: Speaking of tomorrow, are you free tomorrow night after class?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Let’s meet to discuss today’s assignments—and also so I can cook you dinner. I’ll pick you up and bring you to my house. Does this sound okay?
Me: Sure.
Him: All right. I’ll be waiting for you at your house after your class. Have a good night.
Me: Good night.
He never mentioned a specific therapy-related activity for tomorrow. Does that mean that we are going to try blood work again at his house?
Why else would we go to his house? I’ve never been there before. I don’t even know where it is. Why now?
UGH. He says he wants to meet to talk about today’s therapy progress. When there really wasn’t any progress.
So I’m probably going to have to lie to him. In person. Face-to-face.
This blows.
Chapter 8
day four (but really day nine)
1:03 A.M.
In bed. NOT sleeping.
{Katy Perry. “ Wide Awake. ”}
2:03 A.M.
Still not sleeping. Thinking. Sweating.
{Up this hour—Elvis Presley with “ Judy. ”}
3:03 A.M.
Sticking to my sheets. Hair matted on my pillow. Heartbeat irregular.
{Green Day. “ Basket Case .” Over and over and over.}
3:33 A.M.
{Taylor Swift takes over with “ Shake It Off .”}
You can do this, Callie. You can do this. You can go to his house. You can handle whatever happens. Even if Judy—
{Lily Allen tears in with “ Never Gonna Happen ” and—}
And I’m gonna—
OhmyGod.
4:52 A.M.
Back in bed. Done throwing up. For now. Done showering. For now.
Still thanking God that I made it to the bathroom, to the toilet.
Still thinking. And sweating. Heart still pumping with odd, erratic beats.
Still don’t think I can do this. I can’t do this. I can’t.
It was too much before. Before Judy. Before the tourniquet. Before the needle that may or may not actually have been one hundred percent disease free—because who would really know for sure? Maybe someone involved in packaging it pricked himself or herself accidentally. Or—maybe on purpose. Maybe because he or she has…or had…some awful disease and was mad and wanted to make other people suffer.
Oh my God. And now those diseases, that person’s diseases, are just waiting to be injected into my arm when Judy—
Stomach turning. Back of throat starting to—
Running.
6:01 A.M.
Still in the shower. Another post throw up, post clean up shower.
What am I doing? Why am I allowing everything to get so out of control?
His eyes, his sad eyes, appear in my head. Blue. Tragic.
Why do you keep making me think about things that I shouldn’t be thinking about? Why do you keep making me throw up? Why do you keep trying to fix something that can’t be fixed? Why do you keep trying to fix me?
Why do I keep letting you try?
{“ Because I Love You (The Postman Song). ” Stevie B. sneaks in, singing. I almost can’t hear him over the shower water. Almost.}
9:20 A.M.
Morning routine finished. Dressed for the day. Back in bed. In a daze. So very tired. Still can’t stop thinking.
I don’t want to do this day. Not at all. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go to class later. I don’t want to go to his house
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