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“You’re right, but what if it’s too late?”
“Then you’ll have your answer once and for all. You can't just make a decision based on an assumption of an outcome. You have to do the act and see what comes up and then deal with it,” Doctor Sheridan replies, pausing to take off her glasses.
She looks directly at me and gives me an encouraging smile. “I think you’re going to be okay.”
I’m halfway out the door when I stop and glance over my shoulder. “I need her emergency contact’s number.”
Doctor Sheridan writes it down on a piece of paper and rips it out. Wordlessly, she hands it to me and gives me a slight smile.
I offer her a grateful look and rush out of her office and into my own. There, I open and close drawers, searching furiously.
When Maureen comes in, I’ve upended half the file cabinet.
I’m rifling through my jacket pockets when I address her. “I need you to book the private jet to New York.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve got business to attend to, and I can’t find my passport.”
Maureen blinks. “It’s in your safe, sir. You asked me to remind you in case you forgot.”
I stand up and dust myself off. “Do you think you can handle everything while I’m away?”
Maureen stands up straighter. “Of course, sir. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“Can you have the car ready to take me to the airport? I’m going upstairs to pack my things.”
Without waiting for a response, I brush past her.
In my room, I stuff a few random articles of clothing into a small carry-on and zip it shut.
When I’m done, I call Maureen. I smile when she tells me everything is ready.
I’m coming for you, Danielle. Don’t give up on us.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Danielle
I throw the ball up in the air and catch it again. I do this a few more times, focusing on the smooth and rhythmic motions of the gesture until some of the tightness in my chest unfurls.
Once it does, I close my fingers around the ball and squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m counting backward from ten when someone raps on the door. I call out in a hoarse voice and Savannah pokes her head in, carrying a tray of food.
She pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps in.
Slowly, she creeps forward and sets the tray down on the dresser. Then she rips the curtain open, allowing bright sunlight to pour in.
I wince as spots dance in and out of my field of vision.
“You can’t stay in your room forever,” she says, pausing to sit on the empty side of the bed. “I know you’re angry, and I know you’re hurt, but you’ve got to come out at some point.”
“It’s only been a day and a half.”
“A long ass day and a half,” Savannah replies, pausing to squeeze my shoulders. “Skittles and I miss you. Watching trashy TV isn’t the same without your running commentary.”
“You hate my running commentary. You always complain that you can’t hear what they’re saying because of me.”
“That was old me.”
