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The next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes to a dark room. The crick in my neck screams at me for sleeping on the couch. I glance at the clock and notice that it’s only 4:30 a.m.
“Ouch.” I sit up and rub my neck. Add this to the list of crap I’ll have to deal with today.
Shuffling across the ground, I head into the kitchen and pick up my phone. Hundreds of notifications, phone calls, missed Facetime calls, and social media comments fill up my screen. I watch the numbers continue to rise, it practically burns my hand and I immediately turn it off and put it in the junk drawer in my kitchen.
I’m completely overwhelmed, hurt, and I can’t deal with the outside world knowing all of my business right now.
Walking over to the picture windows overlooking the city I love so much, I take a peek at the front of the building and catch sight of the paparazzi still outside the building. I guess they never left last night.
What am I supposed to do now?
Panic starts to creep in as my heart begins to beat against my chest and my breathing becomes shallow.
With nowhere to go and nothing to do, I return to my favorite spot on the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin and get as comfortable as my broken heart will let me.
Three days later, I still haven’t left my apartment. I haven’t showered, changed my pajamas, or turned on my phone. My stomach has been in knots since Friday, and I’ve barely eaten.
Stretching and removing myself from the spot I’ve been sleeping in—that is now an indent of my body—I do what I’ve done every morning and check to see if the coast is clear outside the building.
It’s easy to spot the paparazzi, with their large cameras around their necks. I watch as they stop residents who are leaving the building, probably trying to figure out if they’ve caught a glimpse of me.
“Vultures,” I say.
I can’t stay cooped up in this apartment. I’ll go stir crazy if I sit here a moment longer, wallowing in my sorrows. I need to change my clothes and brush my hair. That would probably be a good idea.
The mere thought of doing any of that makes my stomach muscles clench, and the overwhelming urge to snuggle back into the couch takes over.
“Enough of this!” I slam my fists against my thighs. “You’re Penelope Maxwell. You’re better than this.”
Sadness morphs into white-hot, anger, threatening to explode if I don’t move.
I take a few deep breaths and do what any sane person would do—I march into my room, collect my laptop and iPad, throw them into the closet and grab my Louis Vuitton suitcase from the top shelf.
I briskly navigate the room, throwing clothes, jewelry, makeup, and other necessities into the suitcase.
I struggle to drag the luggage out of my bedroom. It takes thirty minutes to get the bags to the foyer elevator, and my back is not pleased. I call the front desk, hoping Frank is working early today and can help me load my car.
Frank answers and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I hang up with him and set the code to the safe, change into leggings, throw a hat over my hair and wait for Frank to come up on the elevator.
I locate a piece of paper and scrawl a note to Georgia. I’ll ask Frank to give it to her so she knows I’m safe and sound.
Hey Georgia,
I’ve decided to get out of the city for a few days to clear my head. I left my phone here but I promise I will call you when I get home.
Love you.
Pen
At the last second, I run into my office, grab a few books, stuff them inside, and run back to the door in time to greet Frank.
“Frank, can you do me a huge favor please?”
“Sure, Miss Maxwell. What can I do for you?”
“Can you make sure this note gets to Georgia?” I hand him the piece of paper. “Also, if anyone else comes looking for me or asks where I have gone, can you please not tell them anything?”
