Chapter 1
Loreena
“Girl, you look amazing!” Sylvie whistles cheerfully as she deposits a great big bag full of library books onto the tiny kitchen table.
“I look the same as I always do.”
Sylvie changes her hair every few weeks. It’s bright blue today, with neon green streaks that probably are just clip-ins. Her hair arsenal has to look like those crazy shoe collections that people stockpile. Next to her, I’m about as plain as they come.
She tucks a strand behind her ear, then tackles the tote while I watch, arms crossed, leaning against the wall by the table. She makes a pile of books five high, then starts another.
“Nah. I think the yoga’s agreeing with you.” She doesn’t complain that she had to carry all the books from the library to her car, then to mine, andthenclimb up three flights of stairs because the elevator is out of order. “Or it’s the breathing exercises.”
“They don’t help. I tried to take the garbage out yesterday. It stank. Badly. I got four steps outside and had a panic attack.”
Her head snaps up, blue hair flapping all over like bird wings. “That’s progress! Four steps. Seriously.”
I’d dropped the bag and it split open all over the back sidewalk right in front of the door. All I could do was bend at the waist and gasp and choke. There’s nothing glamorous about a full-on panic attack. I’d left the door propped open, anticipatingthe fact that the sky would fall and crush me, my vision would black out, and my lungs would close off.
The panic attack didn’t stop when I darted inside. I basically had to drag myself up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. Even there, with the door closed tightly, all I could do was curl up into a corner, draw my knees up, set my head down on them, and rock. Rock, and rock, and rock. I rocked for hours, until I could finally draw in a shaky inhale.
After I’d calmed down, the first thing I did was phone Sean Amos, the building’s maintenance guy, to apologize for the mess. I know he thinks I’m weird, but when I explained that I was ill and couldn’t clean it up, he offered to do it for me. I wanted to pay him, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
Sylvie turns and fills the kettle, sensing that I’m going to need a massive mug of the peppermint, ginger, chamomile mix she gets me at a tea shop close to her place.
I inhale deeply, trying to ignore the sick metallic taste spreading across the back of my tongue. “That’s not progress. That’snothing. Like my mom said, if I can’t get over this silly little sickness, then I can’t beanything. She was right.”
“Bro!” She slams the kettle clicker down a little too violently and whirls around. “That’s not true. You’re a freaking lawyer. You passed the LSAT and the Bar, and you have a job. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”
“Not smart enough to figure this out,” I mumble under my breath. “Not smart enough that all the therapy in the world can help me. Not smart enough to keep my life from disintegrating.”
Sylvie crosses her arms, mirroring my pose. “Your family chose not to be in your life. They chose to think what theywant to think instead of understanding that what you’re going through is very real. It’s not something you can just get over.”
“Clearly. Because I’ve tried everything.”
“You know what I think about your mom and sister. Your dad is just along for the ride.”
That’s true, but I don’t want to talk about my family. I want to keep on talking about me, me and my endless fucking shortcomings. “I’m not the kind of lawyer that I want to be.”
“But youareone. You did all of that yourself. Got your degree, passed all those tests, did all that school.”
“I have nothing but time.”
“Even if I had nothing but time, I still wouldn’t be able to do any of that. I could barely handle my nail tech course.” Sylvie flashes her hands at me.
She has spaceship nails today, complete with very detailed little UFOs beaming up different animals. All of them are hand painted, and how she did that on herself blows my mind.
“You’re the kind of smart that counts,” I say. “And you’re kind. That can make up for anything. You’re the one who started your own business. You go into people’s houses, and you don’t just do their nails. You give themhope.”
She shrugs, like all that she’s accomplished is no big deal. “Everyone says that hair and nail appointments are really just therapy sessions.”
“That’s what I mean! You take out my garbage for me every time you’re here. You pick up my library books. The worst part is that you have to listen to me go on about work and my familyand being stuck in here. You’ve never once called me a freak or told me to get my shit together. And you keep coming back. Twice a week, when you’re insanely busy. You won’t let me pay you for any of it. That’s real friendship. That’struekindness.”
“No way. You pay me for nails, and that’s all the payment I need. Wearefriends. We’ve known each other for two years.”
“You can know a person for a lifetime and still not be able to tell them everything. I told you about what happened to me on my third fill. It’s because I can talk to you. You would never judge anyone.”
“I judge plenty, but not you and notthat. You didn’t choose for any of that to happen.Noneof it was your fault.”
