Page 9 of Manhattan State of Mind

Buddy’s eyes are like lasers boring into mine. Can’t he tell how much he’s hurting me? They seem to morph right before my eyes, shifting from liquid gold to a deeply human shade of brown.

Those brown eyes bore into mine, their intensity bringing more pain than any physical wound ever could. I want to look away, to hide, but the vice-like grip of his stare leaves me paralyzed, consumed by an emotional pain so raw it’s unbearable.

Then, as if a light switch has been flipped, his eyes return to their regular golden shade, only now they’re glaring like high-beam headlights.

I squint against the brightness. Wait, are my eyes even open?

No, this is just a nightmare. I’m safely tucked away in my Manhattan apartment. Not revisiting my Jersey childhood with Buddy trying to gnaw my arm off.

Even with my eyelids squeezed shut, the light filtering in is too much.

The beeping sound is getting harsher and more grating.

How hungover am I, exactly? A couple of glasses of wine isn’t nearly enough to justify this brutal headache and trippy dream. Matty and I hit the bar last night to mope about my lack of promotion and discuss the whole Wolfe fiasco.

Oh… shit. Wolfe. I’ll probably hear today if he wants me pulled from the project. That’s why I feel so bad; I’m sick with nerves. At least he didn’t fire me on the spot.

I roll my tongue around my mouth, picking up a bitter, medicine-like aftertaste. Probably the preemptive Advil I popped last night.

Well, that was a total fail.

Something feels off.

I can sense it, even with my eyes still shut. I stretch out my arms, and my fingers don’t graze the familiar cotton sheets of my bed. These sheets are cool and silky.

I take a deep breath. The air smells foreign too—like disinfectant mixed with a hint of lavender and floral undertones.

My God, did I hook up with some old guy last night? Bits and pieces from yesterday trickle back: Matty and me at the bar, the impromptu jazz club detour… then nothing.

Blinking slowly, I take a moment to connect the dots that the obnoxious beeping isn’t just some cruel trick my brain is playing; it’s originating from near my bed. My phone?

Have I overslept?

Wait, what day is it even?

Bracing myself, I force open my eyes and…

My heart slams against my chest. The fuck is this place?

This isn’t my bedroom. This isn’t some random dude’s room, either. This is a hospital room. A ridiculously swanky one at that.

I lift my head a smidge, instantly regretting it as a wave of pain crashes into my brain.

What fresh hell is this? How did I end up here?

Don’t freak out.

Do not freak the fuck out.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Everything’s gonna be just fine.

Testing the waters, I wiggle my toes and fingers to check that all my bits and pieces are in their rightful places and functioning. There’s an IV line burrowed into my arm. It feels itchy and tickly.

I lightly trace my face with my thumb—nose, eyes, cheeks—no missing parts. I don’tfeellike I’ve been Frankensteined together, but there’s something tight around my head—must be a bandage.

Ouch. A tender spot throbs on my forehead when I touch it—there’s probably a bruise there, so I must have whacked my head on something. But where? Did I fall out of bed?