The Speed of Light: A Novel(27)

Oldest trick in the book, and I have no idea if they actually fall for it or if they are just better at polite smiles than I am. I press forward, one foot in front of the other, feeling their eyes bore into my back as I cross the now-silent room. I’m almost out the door—clinging to my purse as if it were a life raft—when Danielle calls softly behind me. “Hope to see you again, Simone.”

I wave without turning around. I don’t want her to see me cry.



I burst through the church’s double doors and then gulp at the cold air as if I’d been underwater. I tried this stupid support group, and it was not as bad as I expected it to be.

It was much, much worse.

I’m never going back. I’m going to bury my head in the sand, and no one can judge me ever again.

I trudge back across the parking lot, sucking in rapid breaths in a futile attempt to keep the fear at bay. But it’s chasing me, nipping at my heels with fangs of doubt that are sharper than ever, now that I’ve been accused of not taking the right steps to manage my illness.

You got bad advice. The biting words echo in my brain.

Dr. Montgomery made so much sense—he said I didn’t have to start treatment, and of course I jumped at the chance to put off feeling like a patient.

An ache in my gut now, sharp and accusing. He also said there’s no crystal ball.

That means this might be the wrong choice. How will I ever know?

Maybe I should’ve asked more questions. But I just wanted it over. And once I’d decided, he shipped me off for a final meeting with the nurse—the last step of the appointment, a rushed visit where she piled me up with tips and brochures and ushered me out the door.

And now I am adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

I shiver at the bitter wind whipping across the parking lot and the brutal despair threatening to seep into my bones. But I have to get home. I can’t stay here, and it’s the thought of ice cream and Netflix—the perfect self-care to stave off the darkness—that gets me to take one shaky step, and then another. It’s enough to get me to my car, but as I reach into my handbag, a flare of panic shoots through me.

My keys.

Where are they?

I dropped them into my purse before I went in—I’m sure of it—and yet my anxiety begins to crawl up out of my throat as I root through the purse and turn up nothing.

Frantic, I press my face against the driver’s-side window and squint. An anguished cry escapes my mouth.

My keys, silver and shiny and attached to the key fob, are lying on the floor under the steering wheel.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The keys lie there, worthless, taunting me. You think this day can’t get worse—guess again!

“No, no, no, this can’t be happening.”

I lean back against the door and zip up my jacket against the cold, biting back a sob, fighting off the feeling that the world is caving in on me—but no, I can’t break down now.

Think, Simone, think.

I glance at the church, but I can’t bring myself to go back in. I can’t face them again; I can’t take their judgment.

Nikki is out of town. My parents are more than three hours away and would freak out if they knew I was stranded.

A locksmith? Can AAA help with that? I cringe. Then I stand up straight. Connor?

Oh God. As much as I would love to see him, I’ll have to explain what I’m doing here—I’ll have to talk to him more deeply about my illness, my fears, and I’m not sure I’m ready to do that. But it’s freezing, and I rub my hands together—my damn gloves are on the passenger seat—and rack my brain for a better solution.

I stare at my phone. My eyes flick back to the church again; my mind floats back to the meeting, the argument, my uncertain future. My shoulders sag.

My fingers fumble as I text—it’s cold, and I don’t know what to say without sounding incredibly stupid.

Hi! Are you busy?

He texts back within seconds, and I can’t help but feel a thrill.

Hey, just working out. What’s up?

I take a deep breath, go for it.

I’m kind of in trouble and need some help. I hit “Send” quickly—I don’t want to lose my nerve. But then regret washes over me. I should’ve explained more. My phone rings before I can type any more. “Hey,” I say sheepishly.

“What’s wrong?”

There’s worry in his voice, and I can’t help it, dammit—my voice breaks. “I need a ride.”

“Simone, are you okay?” Worry has leaped into alarm.

Deep breath—I force down the lump in my throat, force my voice to sound even. “Yes, I’m sorry—I’m fine, really. I just . . . I locked myself out of my car.”

“Where are you?”

“At the big Lutheran church downtown—Dakota Avenue, near Twelfth Street?”

“Got it. My gym isn’t too far away—I can be there in ten minutes. Just stay by your car, okay?”

“Okay.” I end the call, stand in silence except for the rush of traffic in the distance. A bitter gust of winter wind whips by, and I shiver, hugging my arms around myself and leaning back against the car to steady my aching legs. A sob at the back of my throat is dangerously close to pushing its way out. But I close my eyes, steady my breathing. Connor’s on his way. Gratitude spreads its warmth over me. Maybe he isn’t so easy to scare off.