Chapter 1
Everything is too loud.
The talking in the coffee shop.
The sound of chairs scraping against the floor.
And worst of all, the thoughts that are racing and chasing each other in my head.
My fingers tap on the cheap cardboard cup in front of me. I stare down at it as if the cooling caramel latte is going to grow arms, pick up a chair, and smash it across my face. Though maybe that would be a mercy if it could distract me from the noise of pure existence around me.
How dramatic of me, I tell myself silently, my gaze flicking up to a large, round man as he drags his chair back across the floor and stumbles to his feet. I can’t tell how much of his shape is him, and how much are his clothes, but I’m willing to bet it’s a solid sixty-forty split.
If he’s this cold in a coffee shop, he should really find a better place to live than Whippoorwill Gap, Washington. My eyes track him as he leaves, and I can’t help the small flicker of a smile at the way he literally crosses himself once he gets to the door. Like the cold is a sentient entity dead set on tearing him limb from limb.
And maybe it is. Sometimes when I don’t put on enough layers in the winter, I definitely take the weather personally. But this isn’t winter, and he won’t make it if this is him now.
But my smile fades as the noise filters back in, and my fingers tap a bit more insistently on the cup in front of me.
I can’t do this.
The thought is abrupt and the sentiment is immediate. Before I can really think about what I’m doing, I jump to my feet, sending my chair clattering back from the table with my jerky, too-quick movement. Luckily, I catch it before it falls, but my stomach still clenches as it teeters on its rear legs and my fingers grip the fake wood of the backrest.
Are my hands shaking?
Yeah, they’re shaking. But I hope it’s only obvious to me, as I very carefully slide the chair back under the table where it belongs. I know I’m putting too much time, too much care into the action. But I can’t help it. Nor can I help the way it feels like every pair of eyes in the coffee shop are on me. From the teenagers in the corner to the person in the drive-thru window talking away at the bored-looking barista.
It’s hard not to look at every single one of them, and impossible not to wince at each laugh, snort, and every smile I see. My brain tells me they’re all directed at me, so whenever someone leans over to say something to the person next to them, I’m convinced the quiet mutterings are about me.
Maybe I’m walking too quickly. Or perhaps my paranoia is showing on my face. They heard my chair, or they’re mocking my black fleece-lined leggings that are just a touch loose under my thick red hoodie that’s too long but so comfortable.
But I’m so close to the door, even as my heart pounds in my chest overnothing at all.I can go have this breakdown in my car, then another one in the comfort of my home instead of in the public loudness of this too-bright coffee shop.
This was a bad idea.
But lately, bad ideas are the one thing I’m good at.
“What?” Words filter through my brain, louder than the others. I stop so quickly that I stumble with my hand close to the trash by the door where I intend to throw my full, gone-cold coffee.
A young girl, maybe nineteen, stands in front of the glass door, a rag and bottle of cleaner in her hands as she looks at me. Her expression falls to confusion, and she glances down at my cup, then at me. “I just said have a good day,” she repeats calmly, slowly, like maybe I’m hard of hearing.
In reality, my brain is just too full and too busy processing everything around me to take in anything else.
“Right. Umm. Sorry. Thanks.” My voice comes out stilted and almost panicked, no matter how much I will myself to at least pretend to be okay today.
Fuck, I’m really not okay. That’s the problem, and I’ve never been a very good liar. A smile twitches on my face, though it quickly withers and dies. “Sorry,” I say again, splashing my fingers with cold coffee as I toss my drink into the trash.
“You didn’t do anything to be sorry for,” the girl promises me, pushing open the glass door for me. “But if you didn’t like that, we could totally make you something else,” she adds, probably having heard the loudthumpof my cup in the trash and realizing just how full it had been.
Embarrassment surges through me, and I remember how horrified my mom was anytime I tried to throw a half full bottle of liquid into the trashcan back home. But I remind myself it’s not that uncommon. That people definitely do it all the time.
“No, it was good,” I insist quickly to reassure her. “I’m just not feeling so great.” Truthfully, I don’t think I even tried my drink. I was too busy fighting down the panic crawling up mythroat and failing gloriously, given my current vibrating nerves and the blood I can hear rushing in my ears.
She says something else, but I don’t hear it enough to do more than respond with a distracted smile. I murmur something I hope is a polite thank you, and press my hand against the cold glass of the door before slipping outside, already counting the steps between me and my unobtrusive black car in the second row of the small parking lot.
While the sidewalk is the easier option, given the icy parking lot, after three steps I realize it’s no longer a possibility for me. Not with the way my brain is telling me that all the people at the window tables are watching me, waiting for me to slip and smash my face against the concrete.
They’re judging me, I think as I see a woman frown at her phone and say something to her companion.
