“Be patient with yourself, Amber. Sometimes you have to step back to open the door.”
Three days later, she glared at the front door, her legs paralyzed with fear. Clutching the cell phone to her ear, she said into the receiver, “I call bullshit.”
“Amber, ring my boss if you don’t believe me.” Zach sniffled through the speaker, his voice leaden with congestion. “He sent me home. I feel like I’m going to die.”
“You can’t die from a cold.” But a heart attack was fatal. She could feel one coiling around her chest, squeezing the life from her body. “What about my mail?” She covered the phone to muffle her panicked gasps.
“Why can’t you get it?” He sneezed, followed by a nasty, wet inhale. “Are you on house arrest or something?”
Unbelievable. They’d had this arrangement for six months. He was just now asking why? She released a thready breath. “I just can’t. Will you ask someone else at the store to bring my mail to the door? Or maybe you know someone who wouldn’t mind swinging by?”
“No. No one lives near you, and I can’t just ask people to do that.” He coughed. “Listen, I need to go.”
The palpitations in her heart wobbled her legs. “I need my mail today.” She needed it two days ago. The leather dye she’d ordered sat twenty-six steps from the door. She couldn’t finish the knife sheaths without it. If she didn’t mail out the completed sales by tomorrow, the water would be shut off.
He hacked through the phone. “I’m sorry, Amber.”
Guilt formed a hard, jagged lump in her stomach. “Please don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.” She rubbed her forehead with cold, shaking fingers. Her stomach gurgled with dread. “Get some rest. Hope you feel better.”
“Yeah, okay. See you Tuesday.”
The phone disconnected, and she slumped to the floor, sucking harshly for air. She hugged her stomach against an onslaught of queasiness and glared at the front door. It stood between her and her paycheck. The damned thing wasn’t a terminal disease. It wasn’t swinging a chainsaw. It was just a door. A bolted, four-sided shield against certain suffering.
Sometimes you have to step back to open the door.
One step back and twenty-six steps to the mailbox. She could do it in twenty-four, a semi-perfect number. Twenty-four hours in a day. Twenty-four carats in pure gold. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
Good God, she was drowning in her own crazy. Just get it over with. She swiped a palm over her face, smearing her makeup with sweat. Shit. She darted to the bedroom and changed into a white halter dress and matching heeled sandals. A check in the bathroom confirmed her hair held its curl. Her makeup was still flawless. She returned to the door.
Deep breath in. Out. Twenty-four paces there and back. She used to make that trek before Zach and Kevin and Chet and...oh, fuck it. She could take her phone. If she panicked, she could call Dr. Michaels.
No, she couldn’t. She swayed and gripped the doorframe. Okay, not a deal breaker. She wouldn’t need him. She had this.
Her heart rate doubled. What if she broke down so spectacularly she couldn’t walk? What if she couldn’t get back to the house?
She flattened a hand over her sternum, hating this, hating herself. What happened to the brave girl who stood on stage time after time, shaping her mouth into a practiced O of surprise as tiaras were placed on her head? Oh yeah. That girl tried too hard to please people, and look where it got her.
She smoothed down the dress and stared at the knob. Reach out and turn it. Twenty-four steps. She could walk them to the tune of kick the fear habit, embrace the new, don’t beat yourself up and all the other psychosmart mantras that sounded invigorating until they were put into action.
How about the shit that kept her up at night? Overdue utilities, no showers, no flushing, no clean dishes?
She flipped the deadbolt four times and yanked open the door.
The sun hit her face in blinding white. She raised an arm to shade her eyes, the blanket of humidity seeping into her pores. A winged insect buzzed past her ear. The smell of fresh-cut grass tickled her nose. The hum of air conditioning units had her spinning in every direction. Were the neighbors home, watching from the shadows of their windows?
A truck motored by, and she jumped, stumbling into her first step.
Don’t look at the street. Her gaze caught on the bushes lining her porch. Jesus, they’d doubled in size, blocking the bench she hadn’t used in two years. The wood seat was weathered, neglected, forgotten.
Dammit, she couldn’t dwell on that, on any of it. A terrible pressure already pushed against her ribs. She bent into the next step, dizzy, fighting for breath.
Ignore it. She ground her molars. Two steps, eight percent of the way there.
Tremors assaulted her body. The landscape spun around her. The mailbox. A passing car. Open windows on houses. A woman walking her dog. Everyone showed up to watch the freak show.
God, she was so fucked up. This should’ve been a thousand times easier than being crowned Miss Texas. She was wearing her heels. Her curls shimmered around her arms. She could take the third step. Just like on stage.
She raised her leg with the grace that came from years of discipline. Suddenly, as if her foot had landed in the spotlight, she turned on her pageant best. Fingers relaxed and together, shoulders back, chin up, bright eyes, and big smile, she held the pose. The persona strengthened her stance. She was the best. Knowing it meant winning it. She was doing it.
The honk of a slowing car scattered her delusion. She flinched, blinked. Bright green lawns, twittering birds, and the scent
