Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
No. That’s wrong. I’m more than this debilitating disease.
So as much as the annoying voice in the back of my mind tells me to stay home, to hide under the blankets with a book, to stay in my comfortable bubble, I remember my therapist’s words. “There is no room for comfort when you’re trying to grow.”
“You can do this.” I hype myself up. “It’s just a party. No, a get-together.” I pretend that minimizing is helping.
Just a party. I snort in response to my own thoughts. If it were as easy as being just a party, I would have already attended a dozen or more. The last time I went to a party, I hid in the pantry almost the entire time. My phone buzzes, and Bel’s name flashes across the notification screen with an incoming text.
Before I can check it, I hear my mother’s delighted exclamation from downstairs.
“Salem’s going to a party? Another one? That’s so exciting!!”
I close my eyes and count to three. You’d think she’d be like other parents with warnings about drinking and drugs. But nope. I suppose at twenty-two, still at home, not done with college, she is hoping for normal as much as I am. After a few more seconds of self-pity, I check my supplies again for safe measure and then head downstairs to face my family’s well-meaning but overwhelming support. Sometimes I think their careful optimism is harder to handle than if they just treated me like I was broken.
I grab my phone and check the new message from Bel.
Bel: you coming?
It’s now or never. Before I can think better of it, I quickly type out a response and hit send.
Me: Will be leaving shortly!
No backing out now, not without making myself look bad.
Dinner is a quick affair, and thankfully, neither my mother nor father dig deeper into my plans for the evening. The fact I’m leaving the house is enough for my mother. Her excitement bubbles out of her, and I have to remind myself that she’s merely happy to see me taking the therapist’s advice.
I take a nibble here and there, but my anxiety makes it difficult to eat much more.
When I realize I’m only prolonging the inevitable by shoving the food around my plate with a fork, I excuse myself from dinner.
“Have fun!” my mother exclaims with a smile from her spot at the dinner table.
“If you need anything, let me know,” Noah adds before shoveling a spoonful of potatoes into his piehole. I give them a weak smile and head for the door. My bag has been packed and ready since I came downstairs. I snatch it up, and as soon as I step out onto the porch, I suck a ragged breath into my lungs. They burn as if I’ve deprived them of air, and I wonder if I had been unintentionally holding my breath.
Makes sense I would be trying to kill myself.
With my gloved hand remaining on the door handle, I use my touch to ground myself and let the cool air filter into my lungs. The brain is an amazing thing, but it’s also dangerous. A maze you can get lost in if you aren’t careful. In my mind, I envision a beach, then the ocean. The waves wash away pieces of my unease as they crest the beach.
You can do this, Salem.
I give myself one final pep talk before I let go of the handle and descend the stairs. I climb into the car I share with Noah, an old Honda Accord. Old or not, Betsy is one hundred percent trustworthy. I start the engine and type the address Bel gave me into the map app on my phone.
It’s not too late to stay home.
I squish the negative thought and smile to myself when I put the car in reverse. I’m doing this. I check the time when I arrive and park outside the luxury condo building. I bet Drew Marshall owns this place. I won’t lie; I expected another raging party at The Mill. Not this. I stare at the fifth-floor windows, where warm light spills onto the balcony.
Somehow, this seems worse than a Mill party. There are no dark corners to hide in, no escape routes to memorize, and no way to blend into a crowd because hopefully, there will be no crowd. Just an intimate gathering in an enclosed space five floors up.
I can see them through the floor-to-ceiling windows—maybe fifteen people total, arranged in intimate clusters throughout what must be a massive living room.
Real conversations. Real interactions. My personal hell.
“You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes,” I mutter, hands clenching the wheel. The nitrile of my gloves squeaks with the motion, and I focus on that sound instead of my own racing heartbeat. Doom and dread encompass me at once.
I can’t do this.