In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
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I KNOW HOW TO handle bad news. I've walked through the fires of grief, felt its burn on my soul, and emerged on the other side scarred. The worst news anyone could receive was the day I found out my twin sister was murdered. The day the world as I knew it shattered into a million irreparable pieces. I've since learned to navigate my despair, find glimmers of hope in the darkness and dance with the shadows trailing behind me.
I know how to handle bad news. But as I stand here, my phone clutched in my trembling hands. The thoughts in my head blur through the tears that refuse to stop falling. My heart is twisting in that familiar way that feels like the very axis of my world has shifted. I can't do this again. I can't handle it this time.
“Is he..... Is he dead? " My voice trembles, the question escaping my lips before I can stop it. I hate myself for asking, but the fear gripping my heart leaves no room for rational thought.
“No, Reagan, he's alive. He's at the hospital,” Everett says, his voice softer. The relief that floods through me is overwhelming, and I lean against the kitchen counter, so I don't fall over when my legs give out.
“Where is he?”
“At Bellevue,”
“Okay, I'll be there in a minute,”
“No, Caine is coming to pick you up,”
“I can drive,” I say, ending the call before he can tell me otherwise. Time slows as I set the phone down on the counter, and my hands are still trembling. I tear through my apartment without a second thought, and my movements are frantic as I grab my car keys and throw on a random sweater. I pause for a moment to look down at my clothes. I'm wearing pajama pants and a faded tank top, but the thought of changing seems trivial in comparison to the impending crisis. When I step out of the elevator, the cool night air hits me like a physical force, cold against my cheeks, so I know that I haven't stopped crying.
The drive to the hospital is a blur, the streets passing by in a haze of light and dark. My hands grip the steering wheel, so tightly my knuckles turn white and my foot presses hard on the accelerator. As if I can will the car to move faster. My mind is my own worst enemy, conjuring up all the possible scenarios and each one is more terrifying than the last. I park the car haphazardly when I pull into the hospital and my heart is hammering against my rib cage. Every step I take towards the entrance feels like a marathon, each breath coming in short and shallow gasps. It feels like I'm swallowing water as I struggle to swim upward, it feels like I'm drowning. I'm always fucking drowning.
I stumble through the automatic doors, and the bright lights and antiseptic smell make me feel like throwing up the little I ate today. My voice is barely above a whisper when I ask for Paris's room number at the reception desk. But the receptionist must have heard me because the next thing I know I'm walking towards the elevator with my legs feeling like they'll give out on me. I press my weight against the wall when the elevator ascends and cover my face with my hands.
