Page 1 of Kissing Chaos
1
Jett
“Come on, come on, come on,” I mumble as I wait for this slow-as-molasses elevator. The temptation to press the call button again is almost too much.
My therapy appointment is in less than five minutes, and I look like a wet dog standing in the lobby of this Atlanta high rise. I should have stayed in bed. This is my punishment for thinking traffic would have died down by ten in the morning.
It didn’t.
I even woke up early thanks to the rumbling of thunder shaking the house. Although, the being-ahead-of-schedule thing may have been the problem. False sense of security and all. I thought I had enough time to fix breakfast, so I threw together eggs, sausage, and a piece of toast.
It turns out reading while I cook and eat is a bad idea. I got lost in the pages of Siena Trap’s most recent hockey romance and forgot I had to leave the house. Then the I-285 connector was a nightmare, because no one knows how to drive in the rain.
Again, I should have expected it. I’m a Georgia girl, through and through.
When I finally arrived at my therapist’s office, the parking lot was full, so I had to park four blocks away and run to the building.
In the rain.
Without an umbrella.
Because why would I remember to grab the one I set by the door last night after checking the weather three times? Total craziness, I know.
And now this elevator is moving slower than a dial-up connection.
I sigh in relief as a ding finally signals the elevator’s arrival and the light on the call button turns off. I rush through the doors as soon as they open, turning and pressing the twenty-seven and then spamming the close button, all while cursing McKenna for forcing me to schedule this appointment for today. Groaning quietly, I shake my head at the overexaggeration.
I need this session. I know I do.
Stupid Joey. Stupid me for wasting two years with him. The worst part? I am obsessing over whatIdid wrong.
What did you do wrong, Jett? Nothing. Not a damn thing.
I have yet to give my best friend any details about what happened the day my ex left. I understand my brain well enough to know that I should talk to someone sooner rather than later, but I’m just not ready to share any of this with someone I know.
At least not with McKenna.
Definitely not with my brother, the only other constant in my chaotic life. Those are the only two people I could talk to. How sad is that? My dad doesn’t need the stress of his grown daughter’s breakup when he is two states away. My mom would just try to force me into more therapy if I mentioned my state of mind.
As the doors of the elevator close behind me, I lean my head back against the metal wall, taking long, slow breaths. The quiet instrumental music sounds like something from my teenage years, and I can’t help but nod along to the beat, lettingsome of the tension slip from my shoulders. No one was paying the weird, wet girl any attention in the lobby, but my brain is convinced that everyone was judging me.
Like anyone would want to look at this hot mess.
I tap my foot to the beat of the music pouring out of the speakers, relaxing more with each passing floor until the song cuts off mid-note. The elevator shutters a few seconds later and comes to a sudden halt, jarring me into the control panel. At first, I assume someone is about to get on with me. I close my eyes and lean against the back wall, willing myself to breathe through the anxiety of sharing a small space with random strangers. Except, why would the music have stopped?
My heart races against my chest at the realization that the elevator is no longer functional. I’m trapped in this metal death can. I slam the call button with my palm, but nothing happens. I press it again. And again.
My fingers tangle into my hair, pulling on the loose strands.
“No, no, no, no, no. This is not happening right now.”
Slipping my phone out of my back pocket, I’m torn between calling McKenna to panic or contacting the office a few floors above. It’s pointless, though, as there is zero cell service in here. Zilch. Nada.
Desperate, I hit the alarm button. A shrill chime fills the metal contraption and the surrounding elevator shaft. I pace in the small space, counting my steps while trying to keep my breathing even. Three steps across, pivot, three steps back. I hate that it’s an odd number, but changing the rhythm of my footfalls to adjust the number of steps feels too unnatural.
“Well, Jett. If you’d stuck with your plans out of high school to move to Kentucky and open a bookstore, you wouldn’t be in this mess,” I mumble to myself. “You could be living a quiet life in racehorse country instead of dealing with heartbreak.”
One hundred seventeen steps around the elevator later, a literal voice from above nearly scares the shit out of me.
