“You can do this, Honey,” I say to myself as if it will change anything today.
It won’t.
I tug my jeans on with one hand and wrestle my shirt over my head with the other as I try to narrowly avoid the corner of the desk in my hotel room.
“Ouch.”
Fail.
I wince as pain radiates from my thigh all the way down my leg. My shoulders slump and I drop my head. Yet another failure to add to my list.
Failed at finishing St. Michael’s...
Failed at following in my father’s footsteps...
Failed at figuring out what I want...
I could keep going, but the more I think about it, the worse I feel.
Hopping on one foot, I lose my balance completely and crash to the floor with a dull thunk, landing beside my half-unpacked suitcase.
“Great,” I mutter. When I finally open my eyes, I stare up at the white hotel ceiling. It’s a blank slate, a fresh start, which is something I’m supposed to be benefiting from. Then why do I feel so completely lost?
“Just breathe, Honey,” I whisper in Dr. Reeves’ voice. It’s a pathetic attempt at calming myself, but it’s all I’ve got. “You're already late and this is only going to make things worse.”
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
After a few seconds, I slowly stand and focus all my energy on getting my jeans on. Once I’ve finished, I work on my blouse, which is harder than usual since my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Are you seriously going to leave me, Honeycomb?”
The question I never answered—the last words from my would-be fiancé if I had said yes. They’ve been replaying in my mind since I willingly boarded the plane here. Unfortunately, the alcohol I used to knock myself out last night did nothing to stop the question waking me up this morning.
I run a hand over my face and glance at my reflection, frowning when the dark circles under my eyes are still there. With a sigh, I grab a couple of cleansing wipes and drag them across my skin, removing the makeup I was too exhausted to wash off last night.
The mascara goes, but the dark bags don’t.
Well, that’s just fantastic.
My hairbrush is next and I wince with every snag it hits through my hair. Styling it today is going to be fun.
When I’m finished, I step back and stare at myself in the mirror. Even with new clothes and a fresh face, I look like hell.Worsethan hell.
My hands are still shaking, and nerves wrack through my body. Over what? A wedding? Getting my hair done? Seeing people I haven’t seen in months? Seeinghim?
All of the above.
“Ready?” I ask my own reflection, knowing the answer.
No. I'm not ready. I may never be ready to see the future I willingly walked away from. It will only serve to remind me of what a fucking failure I am, but at this point, it’s not like I have any other choice.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
