The Speed of Light: A Novel(24)

I try the knob, but it’s locked. “Nik!” I whisper forcefully. “Stan?” I sneak a furtive look both ways down the hallway—still empty—then risk a soft knock. “It’s Simone.” Pressing my ear to the door, I hear nothing.

But just as I’m about to turn away, I hear it: a shuffle inside.

I freeze, eyes on the doorknob as it turns—slowly, the hand on the other side hesitant. As the door opens, I’m pleading within for it to be Nikki, for her to be okay.

But when a face peers out, I lurch back, eyes wide, because it’s not Nikki at all.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

January 1, eleven months before

I peer out my apartment window, eyes squinting into this new year as it dawns, a vast gray procession of clouds across the sky. A misty fog shrouds downtown Sioux Falls, and as I sip my french roast, I try to pretend this is somehow a good omen.

I exhale long and slow, fuss with the row of green houseplants on the window ledge, their colorful pots lined up in rainbow order. But the knot in my stomach is relentless—and it’s not an excited flutter from last night’s perfect date. It’s the burn of anxiety, the dread of what I’ve promised to do today.

The support group meeting.

As if on cue, my phone beeps. A text from Nikki.

Good luck today. Give it a chance—maybe they’ll have some good advice.

The knot eases its grip. Nikki and Claudia are driving to Minneapolis today to see a musical and pick up Claudia’s aunt, who’s flying in from China—it’ll be the first time Nikki meets her, and she’s super nervous, yet she’s still taking the time to send an encouraging text to her fragile best friend. Thanks, Nik. Good luck to you, too! I’ll let you know how it goes. I end with some sparkle and smiley faces because nothing conveys lighthearted confidence like a well-placed emoji.

I pad across the wooden living room floor and onto the plush gray hall carpeting, but when I reach for my purse on the wall hook, my eyes land on the same mirror from last night. There’s judgment in her eyes, and a pang of guilt strikes. The truth is, I probably would’ve had time to see a matinee with Connor today—the support group doesn’t meet until five o’clock. But who wants to spend their second date trying to hide extreme anxiety?

You could’ve told him, she seems to say.

He seems to want to know, at least if I interpreted his awkward question at the bar correctly. Hey, I was wondering, though, how everything, you know, was going. But it was so vague and not even a question, technically. Maybe he wasn’t even asking about it.

I stick out my chin. Maybe I’m not ready to answer, anyway. Maybe it’s too soon to share the reality of my illness.

“Just let me live with the fairy tale, okay?” I whisper my plea out loud, but the lady in the mirror is silent.



I spend the day as one does when attempting to comfort oneself: curled up on my plump, faded brown couch, eating cereal from the box, fully engrossed in cheesy romantic comedies on Netflix. I’m about two and a half films in—woman returns to her small town, you know the rest—when I glance at my phone. It’s almost four.

“Shit!” Frosted Flakes spray from my mouth, the box slipping to the floor. I jump up, throw the soft floral blanket off my shoulders, and race into the bathroom, stripping off my pajamas and hopping into the shower.

Dammit, I should’ve been writing down questions, picking a comfortable outfit, thinking of an appropriate excuse to leave early if necessary. Nikki’s voice booms in my mind: You can’t keep burying your head in the sand.

I sigh as I glob on some shampoo and lather up my hair. Well, too late now—and maybe it’s better not to overthink or overprepare. After my shower, I move about the apartment in a flurry, finally grabbing my purse, shrugging into my coat, and dashing out to my car.

Traffic is forgivingly sparse on this holiday, and soon the massive steeple of the downtown Lutheran church looms before me. I have exactly nine minutes to sit in the parking lot and stare at the building, dark and hulking in the dwindling daylight, a warm amber glow emanating from its vast stained-glass windows.

My plan is to use every last one of those nine minutes, so I scroll through my phone. But I can’t focus—I need to talk to somebody. I can’t bother Nikki right now. I won’t. So I do the next thing I think of.

Mom picks up after three rings, and I smile. “Happy New Year.”

“Monie! Happy New Year to you!” She pauses and her voice is muffled. “Bob, it’s Monie. I’m putting you on speaker, honey.”

“Happy New Year!” Dad calls from across the room, and I smile, picturing him in his old gray recliner, beer in hand, eyes glued to a football game.

Mom clucks. “We had such a nice big meal, hon—so much leftover food! I wish you could’ve been here.”

I roll my eyes out of habit, but the pang I feel surprises me. “I wish I could’ve been there, too, Mom,” I say softly. “But I have to work tomorrow, and I, uh . . . I have this . . . you know, this meeting.”

“Oh, the support group! Dad and I are so proud of you for going. Are there a lot of people there? Anyone your age?” Then she gasps, as if struck by a thought. “Anyone you know?”

God, I hope not. “Mom, I haven’t even gone inside yet. I’ll have to let you know, okay?”