Page 9 of My Soul for Sale

Today is my physical. I don’t know why, but my heart feels like it’s gonna beat right out of my chest. The nerves might not be so bad if I hadn’t received last-minute changes in an email from someone named Edward.

Apparently, the original clinic they told me to go to is having some issues, so I’ve been redirected to the one on Mormont Circle.

I hope everything is okay, and it’s not something to do with the auction itself and they’re just blaming it on the clinic.

I’m anxious enough about it as is. I don’t need it turning out to be a shady deal.

I check myself in the mirror and blow out a breath as I tighten my ponytail. “This is it, Sloane. You got this. We do the physical, get accepted, and buy the house.”

With shaky hands, I shut and lock my apartment door and head out to my car. The old PT Cruiser is the only thing I got from Grandma. Ali said she wouldn’t be caught dead in it when Grandma couldn’t drive anymore, so she gave it to me and I cherish it.

It’s the only thing of value that is mine and mine alone.

Typing the address into the GPS, I start the engine and am on my way.

I turn the new Taylor Swift album on and sing along. I swear I don’t care how old I get; this woman will always be an icon. From a nobody young girl in country music to a global superstar and she did it writing mostly her own songs? Like I said, an icon.

In no time, I’m on track five and pulling up to the building the clinic is in. Heading inside through the sliding doors, I enter a huge lobby but don’t see a directory.

“Miss,” someone calls from the desk next to the door.

I whirl around and come face to face with a security officer. “Hi. Sorry, your lobby is beautiful. I’m looking for 202.”

“Second floor.” He smiles and resumes looking at whatever he was doing before I came in.

Without another word, I turn to the elevator and as the doors slide open, walk inside, hitting the number two button.

The elevator makes the climb and dings as it comes to a stop. I step out into a small waiting area with a fancy door—the number 202 written in cursive script on it.

Let’s do this.

Pushing it open, I’m met with another desk. This one, though, is reception. A middle-aged woman sits behind it, huge couches line the walls, and the obligatory TV all doctors have is mounted in front, but it’s turned off.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment, Sloane Bucklee.”

She clicks a few buttons on the computer in front of her. “Perfect. I have you all checked in. The nurse will call your name when they’re ready for you.”

Taking my seat, I wait patiently, my foot bouncing in tune with the jazz music they’re playing.

I’m so lost in the melody I don’t notice the door opening until I hear my name. “Sloane Bucklee.”

A nurse in sun-yellow scrubs, holding a clipboard, stands in the doorway waiting for me.

“Morning. We’re going to the first room on the left.”

“Okay.” I follow behind her and I can’t help but feel like I know her from somewhere. She must just have one of those faces.

When I enter the room, she sits at the little counter area with a computer and brings the computer to life. “Alright, Sloane, go ahead and stand on the scale for me”

I take my position on the black digital scale and close my eyes.

“Two hundred pounds even. Do you know how tall you are?”

“Five foot six.”

She clicks on the keyboard some more. “Okay, we’re kind of busy this morning, so I was just checking you in. The nurse will be right with you.”

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