Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Lilah?” Patricia asks impatiently. “Are you listening?”
“No.”
She splutters in outrage, and I ignore her.
My mind is a mess. A swirling, whirling storm of what-ifs. I can’t die in eight days. I have things to do. Deep breaths don’t help, and calm thoughts do nothing. I am sweaty and stressed out to the nth degree. This might well be my first-ever panic attack. If I could just stop the downward spiral and think things through logically, it still might be okay. I mean, it all comes down to tonight’s lotto draw. Say I only get one or none of the numbers, then there’s my answer. It’s been nothing more than a couple of truly awful coincidences. But if I happen to get more right than that...
“You’re right, Patricia. I think I am coming down with the flu,” I say as I grab my bag. “I should go.”
She gives me the death glare reserved for rule breakers. Patrons who write on or dog-ear pages. But, alas, I am immune.
* * *
Death isn’t something I tend to dwell on. My father likes to point out that people worry about what happens after they die but don’t give much thought to where they were before they were born. A philosopher named Epicurus said as much. This always seemed kind of profound to me. Like if we were fine wherever we were before we were born, odds are we’ll be fine wherever we go after we’re dead.
I have approximately two hours until the lotto numbers are drawn. Until I find out my fate. Of course, my rational mind refutes all this nonsense. Won’t even give it the time of day despite the possible evidence starting to stack up. I sit in my old Prius in the parking lot and inspect my skull. Give it a good going-over searching for any lumps or bumps. Because if I cracked my head last night when I hit the pavement, it would explain a hell of a lot. A concussion can cause all sorts of problems and make you imagine the strangest things.
But there’s nothing. All I do is mess up my hair.
Time to calm down. I should go home and fill in the spaces left by my ex. Spread my belongings back around. It might help to give me a feeling of control. I turn on the engine, buckle up my seat belt, reverse out of the parking spot, and maneuver through the lot.
Home sounds good. I’ll read a book and rest my sore hip. Ooh. I could get takeout. Now there’s an idea. There’s nothing fajitas can’t fix.
When the radio starts playing a moment later, however, it’s a love song. Our song. The one that was on high rotation last summer when Josh and I met. Gah. Make it stop. Have I not suffered enough? The answer is apparently no, since stabbing hard and fast at the buttons only succeeds in cranking up the volume to a deafening level.
The thing is, taking your eyes off the road for more than a moment isn’t a good idea. It’s just not recommended. There’s a reason why you’re supposed to watch where you’re going. Because despite managing to shut down the damn noise, I look up to find myself deep in the shit. In the wrong lane with a car coming toward me. We’re so damn close I can see the man’s brows jump high in surprise above his sunglasses.
I screech as the car sensors start blaring. The muscles in my arms strain as I turn the steering wheel sharply to the side. Just veer the vehicle the fuck on over. And it would have been fine if I’d just gone back into my lane. But no. I turn the wrong way and crash straight into a concrete post with a bang.
The airbag smacks me in the face, shoving me back against the car seat before deflating with a prolonged hissing noise. It almost drowns out the ringing in my ears. My nose hurts, but I don’t think it’s broken. All I can do is sit and stare at the crumpled hood. My poor car is ruined. Just absolutely trashed. At least I was still in the parking lot and not driving too fast. I have no new injuries—that I am aware of. It’s as positive a spin I can put on such a shit show.
“Are you all right? Can you hear me?” asks a deep male voice with an accent that can only be described as posh but not. A blend of British high society and Scottish brogue. Thank you, romance movies, for teaching me which is which. Christmas rom-coms with lots of snow, and European settings in particular. It’s the dude with the sunglasses who I almost ran into. He raps his knuckles on the driver’s-side window to be sure he has my attention. “Miss, do you need help?”