CHAPTER ONE
NATALIE
Every long journey begins with one step.
I read that on an online forum a while back. It was one of those photoshopped inspirational quotes done in a curly typeface on top of a beautiful sunset. To this day, I remember the image vividly not because it featured a blonde beauty clad in a sports bra and tight shorts with a golden retriever by her side, but because my best-friend and editor Daphne Marshall pointed out that the cliff formation in the background looked like a penis. Once someone points out a penis in a picture, it can’t be unseen.
“Do you remember the Mount Dick photo?” I ask Daphne. She and I are standing at the kitchen island as I stare at the door of my apartment.
“The one with the chick running on the beach with her dog? How could I forget?” She arches an eyebrow. Daphne is tall, slender, and every inch the fashionable New York working woman. She could be on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily with her slick black outfits and perfectly shod feet. In contrast, I’m wearing pink flannel pajama pants decorated with penguins and a faded NY Cobras T-shirt that I’d stolen from my cousin Oliver a few years ago. I did brush my hair and teeth, though. That’s a plus. “Did we decide that she was running toward Mount Dick or away from it?”
“Away. There was genuine terror in that dog’s eyes. Like whatever lurked behind that penis would haunt him forever.”
“Maybe that’s just you projecting.”
“Ouch.” I slap a hand over my chest, but I can’t deny her charge. I am haunted by a lot of things in my past, but I’m trying to move past them, which is why Daphne’s with me today. Today I’m going to push the elevator button, and she’s going to make sure that if something bad happens, I’ll get back to my home safely.
It’s a huge step forward for me, metaphorically speaking. The elevator is only twenty steps away from my door. And there are only fifteen steps between me and the door of my apartment. I know precisely because I’ve documented them in the journal I started keeping three years ago. The journal doesn’t contain my thoughts and dreams—it’s a collection of numbers and tally marks recording how many times it took to open the door, then step into the hall, then push the elevator button, then wait in the hallway before puking, crying, and losing consciousness because my throat closes up from fear. Not fear of anything in particular. Nope, my fear is of fear itself.
The worst kind.
The stupidest kind.
The seemingly incurable kind.
Two weeks ago I was able to leave my apartment and go down to the subway stop three blocks away. It was a huge victory for me, seeing as I’d not been able to leave even my building three years ago, let alone be within sniffing distance of a subway tunnel. One anonymous note that was barely threatening sent me scurrying back inside—years of therapy shot to shit.
It’s safe to say that sometimes I can’t stand myself.
But not today. Today I’m going to open my apartment door. I’m going to walk the twenty steps to the elevator, and I’m going to push that damn elevator button. I won’t try to get on. My little brain can’t handle that kind of exposure today. Maybe tomorrow or the day after. But I won’t get outside again unless I take that first step.
“What if you gave me a push?” I suggest.
Daphne makes a frustrated noise. “Why are you doing this to yourself? I feel like I’m watching you volunteer for torture. Your face is shiny and your skin is clammy.” She pats my cheek with the back of her hand. “Shit, you’re already going into shock.”
“I’m not.” I take two deep breaths and start counting. Counting helps to slow my breathing from freaked out back to semi-panicked. So does focusing on the picture of the Eiffel Tower that I have hanging near the entry. Also pressing the large middle vein on my wrist repeatedly.
I do all of those things so that I can unstick my feet and move toward the door. Just to the elevator, I tell myself. Heart pounding so hard, I’m sure Daphne can hear it, I take my first step and then another. I keep going until I’m at the doorway. Daphne’s slim body is a welcome presence behind me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say between heaving breaths. I raise a shaky hand to wipe away the cold sweat that’s formed on my forehead.
“Of course. If you were to pass out, I wouldn’t get the next chapter in your book that is due in, oh, thirty days.”
“You’d get it,” I protest, ignoring the doorknob in front of me. “It might not be for a few days, but you’d get it.”
“So you say.” She leans around me and places her hand on the door. “Want me to open it for you?”