Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Good God, she was drowning in her own crazy. Just get it over with. She swiped a palm over her face, smearing her makeup with sweat. Shit. She darted to the bedroom and changed into a white halter dress and matching heeled sandals. A check in the bathroom confirmed her hair held its curl. Her makeup was still flawless. She returned to the door.
Deep breath in. Out. Twenty-four paces there and back. She used to make that trek before Zach and Kevin and Chet and...oh, fuck it. She could take her phone. If she panicked, she could call Dr. Michaels.
No, she couldn't. She swayed and gripped the doorframe. Okay, not a deal breaker. She wouldn't need him. She had this.
Her heart rate doubled. What if she broke down so spectacularly she couldn't walk? What if she couldn't get back to the house?
She flattened a hand over her sternum, hating this, hating herself. What happened to the brave girl who stood on stage time after time, shaping her mouth into a practiced O of surprise as tiaras were placed on her head? Oh yeah. That girl tried too hard to please people, and look where it got her.
She smoothed down the dress and stared at the knob. Reach out and turn it. Twenty-four steps. She could walk them to the tune of kick the fear habit, embrace the new, don't beat yourself up and all the other psychosmart mantras that sounded invigorating until they were put into action.
How about the shit that kept her up at night? Overdue utilities, no showers, no flushing, no clean dishes?
She flipped the deadbolt four times and yanked open the door.
The sun hit her face in blinding white. She raised an arm to shade her eyes, the blanket of humidity seeping into her pores. A winged insect buzzed past her ear. The smell of fresh-cut grass tickled her nose. The hum of air conditioning units had her spinning in every direction. Were the neighbors home, watching from the shadows of their windows?
A truck motored by, and she jumped, stumbling into her first step.
Don't look at the street. Her gaze caught on the bushes lining her porch. Jesus, they'd doubled in size, blocking the bench she hadn't used in two years. The wood seat was weathered, neglected, forgotten.
Dammit, she couldn't dwell on that, on any of it. A terrible pressure already pushed against her ribs. She bent into the next step, dizzy, fighting for breath.
Ignore it. She ground her molars. Two steps, eight percent of the way there.
Tremors assaulted her body. The landscape spun around her. The mailbox. A passing car. Open windows on houses. A woman walking her dog. Everyone showed up to watch the freak show.
God, she was so fucked up. This should've been a thousand times easier than being crowned Miss Texas. She was wearing her heels. Her curls shimmered around her arms. She could take the third step. Just like on stage.
She raised her leg with the grace that came from years of discipline. Suddenly, as if her foot had landed in the spotlight, she turned on her pageant best. Fingers relaxed and together, shoulders back, chin up, bright eyes, and big smile, she held the pose. The persona strengthened her stance. She was the best. Knowing it meant winning it. She was doing it.
The honk of a slowing car scattered her delusion. She flinched, blinked. Bright green lawns, twittering birds, and the scent of hot asphalt knocked her back to reality.
She glanced down and took in her ridiculous pose. Decked out in heels with one leg bent and a hand on her hip? Her smile slipped, and her ankles teetered.
Stop it. She held her arms at her sides. Tingling numbed her fingers, her sense of control slipping.
Why couldn't she stop these reactions? She wanted this step, needed it. Move, dammit.
Spots blackened her vision. The pressure in her chest... It was stifling. She couldn't breathe. Oh God, her body was giving up on her, overheating, growing heavy. The ground tilted.
She squatted to avoid collapsing and fell back on her ass, shaking uncontrollably. “Noooo.” She cried out in anguish and curled into a ball. Make it stop hurting. So scared.
The open crack of the door wavered through her tears, an arm's length away. She crawled on elbows, stiffened by chest pain and gasping for air. She dragged her body over the threshold and kicked the door. It shut with a thunk, silencing the cars, the windows, the witnesses. She folded herself into the corner of her cage and wept.
Eventually, she peeled her tear-soaked face off the oak floor and leaned against the door. The sun no longer glowed through the cracks, and she was no closer to the mailbox.
She'd have to try again.
As if. She was still strung out and trembling like a mouse. She'd only fail.