He turns with the coffee and grabs a lid. “It’s just, every day I ask you how it’s going, and you always say good, no matter what.”
I blink at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Most of the time, but not every day. Sometimes there’s snow or tourists to battle or some days, people just wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I hear it all. But not you. Do you ever have a bad day?”
I don’t know how to answer. Everybody has bad days. I just don’t experience them often—or great days, either. Some might call that boring, but it’s a form of self-preservation. I don’t handle highs and lows like the average person, so I do what I have to do to stay even. “I guess I’m just a generally happy person.”
Or, I’ve gotten help in that department so long, it’s basically the truth.
“That’s nice,” he says, sliding the cup across the counter. “I can’t even imagine a day without all hell breaking loose.”
I glance at the coffee. This is the perfect job for social Pete. Having gotten to know him through my daily visits the last year, I’m fairly certain he likes some chaos in his life. To me, he’s the one who seems happy. I’m just getting by as best I can.
This is the perfect opening to ask about the lost and found. In fact, I do have difficult days, and that’s why the journal is necessary. I take a breath. “Pete—”
“Are you two going to chat all morning?” a woman in line asks.
Pete ignores her. “What’s up, babe? You finally going to try one of my famous scones? On the house. First hit’s free.”
I envision the journal sitting right between us, underneath the counter. I doubt Pete’d hesitate to open someone’s private diary if it caught his interest. He’s nosy like that. What if he was disgusted? Or showed it to perma-scowl and they found it offensively bad? Worse . . . what if they laughed? It wouldn’t be the first time. In eighth grade, I wrote and performed a poem for drama and stupidly chose the topic of sex. I could barely hear myself over the snickering. The teacher sent a note home to my parents.
If I ask Pete for my journal and he returns it to me, I have to assume he read it. And perma-scowl too. I could never show my face in here again. I need my journal, but I need this routine too. I pick up my coffee and wait for Pete to finish boasting about his scone recipe. “Not today,” I say when he’s done. “But thanks anyway.”
“See you later for a refill?” he asks.
“Maybe.” I wave on my way outside.
Instead of heading down to the subway, I decide to walk to work. I’m not good with nervous energy. I rarely get anxious anymore, my dad has seen to that, but when my regular coping methods aren’t enough, I write. I put it all in the journal so I can function properly, do my job, play the roles I’m supposed to and fall asleep at night without dark thoughts creeping in. My words come from a corner of my mind I don’t like to shine light on, but sometimes I need to. Not for anyone other than myself to see, though.
I dial the agency to check in with my assistant.
“Halston Fox’s line,” Benny answers.
“It’s me. Is Rich at the office?”
She hums. “Gee, youcouldjust call him yourself.”
I half roll my eyes. “I want to come in late, but he gets all judgey when I do.”
“You can’t. Your dad just called a meeting upstairs. That’s where Rich is headed, and that’s where you need to be in fifteen minutes.”
Damn. It doesn’t really matter if I’m late—that’s one of the advantages to being the boss’s daughter—but I don’t like to give my dad or Rich excuses for a lecture. “I’ll be there in ten.”
I hang up, step off the curb, and stick my hand out for a cab. Despite the sun shining bright, it’s still a crisp December day. I wedge my coffee in one elbow and dig in my handbag for my mittens. Before I get them, my phone’s daily reminder rings. I abandon the gloves and get my meds from the side pocket. I don’t normally take them in public, so I hide the bottle in a fist to unscrew the cap.
A taxi swerves over, disturbing a flock of pigeons. When a bird nearly wings me in the face, I throw my arms up, dumping pills all over the street.
Shit shit shit.
“In or out,” the cabbie yells.
The alarm continues to ding. A couple people stop on the sidewalk. “Do you need help?” someone asks.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. Little white tablets are scattered on the pavement in a chalky constellation. The only way this moment could get more embarrassing is if I get on my hands and knees to retrieve a bunch of happy pills.
I leave them to hop in the car. “Fourteenth and Fifth,” I tell the driver.
Before we’ve even pulled away from the curb, I touch my fingers to the inked feather behind my ear. My mother’s the only person I knew who actually liked pigeons. She insisted birds could love and be loved. For a second, I think I can feel my pulse there, my hammering heart.
