Page 65 of Manhattan State of Mind

“Lucy.” The waitress places a hand on my shoulder, concern etched on her face. “It’s good to see you again—I’ve been worried about you. You feeling better now?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m great now,” I stammer, not sure if I should know this woman’s name.

“That’s good to hear. You look after yourself.” She smiles and gives my arm a reassuring pat before moving along.

I turn back to the girls. “How did she know about the accident?”

They glance at each other, a tinge of unease on their faces—a recurring expression these days.

Priya breaks the silence. “That was about what happened a couple of weeks ago. You had a little… cry… here.”

My fingers freeze around my glass. “I did what? Why? Was I drunk?”

“We don’t know, Luce. Truth be told…” She pauses to draw in a deep breath. “Before the accident, you seemed distant. You started crying out of nowhere a few times.”

“What?” I stare at her like she’s talking in tongues. “Over the apartment not selling?”

She shrugs, looking lost. “You wouldn’t tell us.”

“Why the hell didn’t you force it out of me? Pinned me down and hounded me until I spilled?”

Priya gapes. “We tried! We asked, begged even. You kept saying you’d tell us when you were ready.”

“Oh God.” I groan. “Was it related to Daredevil? He must have dumped me. Maybe it’s a blessing I can’t remember.”

“Maybe.”

I take another gulp of my drink to calm my nerves. The idea of a hidden secret, something so monumental it made me bawl in a bar, shakes me to my core.

She gnaws her lip, eyeing me anxiously. “The doc said to start small and work up slow, so… I really hope we’re doing this right.”

A knot forms in my throat. “So it’s not about Taylor being my boss, a sex doll, Spider, or the apartment?”

They both squirm.

“We’re not sure.”

I gawk at them, mind racing. The noises of the bar fade away as my heart pounds in my chest.

There’s something… even worse?

SEVENTEEN

Lucy

“This latex is giving me a yeast infection, I swear to God,” Libby grumbles, adjusting her skintight suit. “Why couldn’t we just wear activewear?”

I try not to laugh as we move through the busy convention center. With my expert body paint skills, they both look badass, though they won’t admit it. Libby rocks a black catsuit, while Priya confidently embodies Poison Ivy, her curves concealed under vines and leaves topped with a fiery red wig.

What a great Saturday. Getting them here was a miracle thanks to the amnesia card. If my memory returns, I might continue pretending it hasn’t, as it’s a great way to get favors. Surviving my first week back at work makes this fun outing feel well-deserved.

Sometimes I meet up with other comic fanatics, but my comic bestie is in L.A. and can’t make it to these events.

As for my outfit, I chose a more modest version of Miss Nova, minus the provocative cleavage and groin windows. Wearing a metallic blue bodysuit dotted with shimmering stars and a glowing crescent moon emblem, thigh-high solar flare boots, bold supernova blue lipstick, I feel both sexy and badass.

“We can’t show up in gym clothes while everyone else is in full cosplay,” I remark. “Go big or go home.”

“Or go to a normal bar dressed like regular New Yorkers,” Priya mocks, but I ignore her.