Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Instead, I’ve resigned myself to what I am, a sobbing disaster that hiccups with a new cry every fifty feet or so.
Believe it or not, it’s a vast improvement over yesterday. Just ask Benji.
I shove open the front door to my building and hold Benji’s leash to shuffle him inside first before following, my bag clattering over the change in elevation presented by the threshold enough to get my doorman’s attention.
He lifts his head from whatever he’s working on at the front desk, a smile at the ready, but when he catches sight of me, any and all familiarity vanishes. I’m pretty sure if it weren’t for the Batman costume-wearing dog beside me, he’d be detaining me while the police found their way to our building.
“Ms. Baker…are you all right?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing more than a shrill cry escapes, so I shut it and hustle to the elevator as fast as my heartbroken body can take me.
I’m not suitable for conversation right now, dammit!
My backpack slides off my shoulder with the speed of my spin and knocks me off-balance, but Benji crowds my legs enough to catch me before I can bang my head into the elevator wall. With manic fingers, I push the button to my floor and the door close button simultaneously and over and over again.
When the door finally closes in front of me, I sink into the back rail and then past it, until I’m flat on my ass.
I know it’s dramatic, but I swear, I don’t feel even an ounce of strength in my body.
When the elevator does make it to my floor, I have to crawl to my door, dragging the suitcase behind me like a corpse—a painfully accurate representation of the way I feel.
I reach up with one hand to put my key in the lock, and I have to make several attempts before getting it. When I push the door open with the knob, I slink my way forward like the snake that I am.
Snot coats just about every inch of my upper body at this point, and my eyes are so puffy I can barely hold them open. I’m not delusional enough to think I look normal, but I still try for a smile when my sister catches sight of me slithering in the door like I’ve lost the use of my legs.
“Jesus Christmas!” she yells, likely horrified by the terrifying sight of me as we make eye contact. “Grant, Seth, go in the bedroom now!” she orders unequivocally, and the two of them take off running. She recovers from her horror quickly, though, jumping up from the couch and running toward me as I collapse into a heap on the floor. I roll over to my back, staring up at the tiles on my drop ceiling while I cry.
“Brooke, what happened? Oh my God, what’s wrong? Did someone die?” Her voice is both loud and discreet in the way only a mom with small children can be, and Benji crowds the two of us as Sam pulls me into her arms. “Brooke, tell me what’s going on so I can help you. Do I need to make funeral arrangements or plan a hit? Give me a clear path to work.”
“I…I…I’m smo dove.”
“Smo dove? Smo so? So dove so done? So dun dun dum dumb, so dumb. You’re so dumb!” Sammy yells out her successful translation excitedly, making me scowl. I mean, I understand that I’m not the most coherent I’ve ever been right now, but I’m in the middle of a crisis, for shit’s sake. Sammy notices my discontent and corrects her face immediately. “Sorry. Really sorry,” she apologizes, running a tender hand over my hair and twisting at the ends like our mom used to do when we were kids. “Take a deep breath, Brookie. Get it together, so you can tell me what’s wrong, okay?”
Get it together? Ha. I’m so far from being able to get it together it’s not even funny. It’s tragic.
She strokes my hair gently, alternating running a finger over my cheek every time another tear escapes. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Nothing you and I can’t fix, okay?”
My breathing is short and choppy for a lot longer than I’d like to admit, but under her quiet direction and undeniable patience, I eventually overcome the frog in my throat and put together a coherent sentence.
“I…I really messed things up with Chase. I had a chance, an actual chance at being with the guy of my dreams, and I blew it.”
The words are no more than just clear of my mouth when I devolve into my four-hundredth round of tears. Saying it aloud—admitting how big my fuckup really is—has me spiraling into a full-on breakdown all over again.
And I thought poor Mark saw me at my worst. I’m reaching new levels of breaking down as we speak.