No Longer Your Wednesday Girl
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Summary
Only one-seventh of Damian belonged to me.
Every Wednesday, like clockwork, he would call.
"Mal," he’d ask, his voice smooth and measured through the speaker, "how has your week been?"
It was always Wednesday. Only Wednesday.
On Monday, a drunken stranger spent ten excruciating minutes kicking at the front door of my rented apartment. I hid inside the closet, my limbs shaking violently as I dialed his number. "The phone you are trying to reach is turned off."
On Tuesday, I was admitted to the hospital with acute pneumonia.
