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THE FIVE-STORY SHOPPING mall on sixty-eighth street and seventh avenue has two elevators and Aerin walked into the wrong one on the Thursday before Christmas.
Specks of sunlight peek in through the mall's glass doors and windows, reflecting off the people inside who slip past one another. They're paying no mind to the tinsel draped on the walls or the Christmas trees lining the large windows because they're preoccupied with attempting to snag the remainders of cheap gift sets or catch a train back home before the city thrusts itself into the storm known as rush hour.
But, Aerin's in the middle of her own storm.
She's gnawing the inside of her cheeks, ignoring the tears pricking the corners of her eyes and the pain that envelopes her entire being as she replays the conversation she had with her dad before she left for school that morning.
She hated lying, but that's what she did, making it the third time in a week.
She can ignore the way her vision blurs before the tears spill out and how her breathing becomes ragged when her thoughts lose control, but she can't disregard the way he looked at her with his eyebrows furrowed in genuine confusion, taking her words seriously because he never doubted her.
The doors to the elevator on the right open slowly, revealing way too many people who only provide her with questioning glances. Her feet skid against the white tiled floor and eyes shoot to the ground after they've stolen a glance at the arrow above the elevator that points downward.
She doesn't look up until the elevator has closed, blowing at the loose strand of hair that falls brazenly on her face. Her phone is still in her hand, burning the skin of her palm, silently and endlessly reminding her of what she doesn't want to recall.
It's nearing three-thirty, and the last thing she needs is an abundance of phone calls from her worried parents, to whom she promised she'd be back within an hour when the sun sets beneath the horizon and plunges the city into its familiar darkness and the night lights paint themselves across a blank canvas.
So, she slips through the doors of the second elevator that opens, even though it's headed downwards as well. There's only one person in this one, plastered to the back wall, staring overhead at the numbers above the door.
Her back hits the steel as she leans against the elevator wall after pressing the button for floor number five, her hand gripping the railing and her knuckles turning white as her skin sinks further into the material. Her other hand is holding her phone, open to the page where her test results are seconds away from being presented to her. The test results she's been dreading, the test results she refuses to see despite the fact they've been knocking on her door for two weeks now.
She catches a glimpse of the screen, and then the elevator plummets—and her heart does too.
She probably stops breathing for a few seconds, but she isn't sure. Exasperation and frustration linger in the sigh she emits and her eyes close, trapping out her surroundings.
