“Dani,” he starts.
“Micah,” I cut him off, exasperated and barely holding on to what little control I have left.
The frustrated grunt from his lips lingers in the air around us, seeking validation and falling short of any acceptance. “You’re fine. I know,” he says as he ever so slowly releases his grip on me, unknowingly plummeting me into the darkness.
He darts downstairs as I stumble into the bathroom, shutting myself in.
The cold, smooth surface of the sink provides minimal relief against the clamminess of my skin, but I grip it for dear life to try to stave off the vomit clawing its way up my throat.
You’re okay. You’re fine. Everything’s fine.
I recite the mantra to myself repeatedly until the soft tan of the walls stops spinning and the feeling returns to my lower limbs.
After another few minutes of self-assurances, I feel mostly back to normal aside from the tension headache that always follows moments like this.
The first time I lost control of my body, it was terrifying. I was running through the halls of a hotel, unsure if he was chasing me or if it was just the pounding of my heart against my chest I was hearing.
Had Nigel not gotten a random phone call, what would’ve happened in that room? Would I have given him the things he demanded from me? Would he have taken them by force?
Somehow my legs carried me to an empty stairway before they crumbled beneath me. I felt as if I were floating outside of my body, watching everything unfold. I was screaming at myself to get up, but my legs were frozen to the ground. My body was so unbearably hot, I thought I might melt from the inside out. I kept telling myself to breathe, but it felt as if rocks were sitting on my chest, making the task impossible.
I laid in that stairway powerless to move until my body decided it was safe to work again. The headache that followed was severe enough to leave me bedridden for a full twenty-four hours after. Eventually, losing control became part of my norm. The aftershock headaches became slightly less debilitating.
I didn’t figure out a way to bring myself out of the haze sooner until my last confrontation with Nigel.
I hate being home.
I spent the last six months in London for work, and I had hoped that would’ve been long enough to ease the pain I felt at home, but being back in New York doesn’t feel good.
Everywhere I look something reminds me of him.
Right as I’m about to unzip my suitcase, Leslie calls me.
There’s a voice I haven’t missed at all. While I was in London, Leslie left me alone for the most part. Most of my time was spent working on the shoe collaboration with occasional shows and photoshoots, so there was no need for her to be on my line every five minutes.
That might be what I’ll miss the most about London.
“Leslie. Long time no talk. What a pleasure.” Sarcasm drips from every word like venom. We’re well past the point of pretending we’re anything more than agent and client. We’re a means to an end for each other, not friends.
“Are you at home?” She never bothers to say hello. It’s always straight to the point.
“Yes.”
“Good. There’s a launch party for Dolce’s newest fragrance tonight. I’m sending a glam squad your way.”
I sigh. I definitely haven’t missed this shit. “Leslie. I’m tired. I just got home and I’m jet-lagged. I don’t want to go to a party tonight.” The only plans I have are with my bed and my TV.
Leslie grunts her frustration. “You’ve been missing from the New York scene for six months. You need to make a reappearance, and it needs to be good.”
“I’ve been working.”
“No one gives a fuck what you’re doing if they can’t see you doing it.”
We go back and forth until the conversation ends with me doing what I always do—giving in.
“Welcome home,” I whisper to myself.
At the party, I order another glass of wine from the bar. If I could drown in this glass, I would.
