Miraculously, my phone survived its coffee splash bath.

I do my best to wipe it off in the ladies room.

My clothes, unfortunately, have also fallen victim to the coffee explosion. I dab my leggings with paper towels. It’s a losing battle. Besides, my clothes are already stained. What’s one more?

The glare of the overhead fluorescent lighting is doing wonders for my headache.

Behind me, one of the stall doors opens, and a gorgeous woman emerges.

Whenever I see a woman this beautiful, I involuntary cringe. I don’t know how some women are able to effortlessly pull off makeup and stylish outfits. That poise and nonchalance is something I will never possess. I have neither poise nor nonchalance. Instead, I have nervous sweats and heaps of anxiety.

The woman washes her hands and glances at her own reflection, gently smoothing out her dark ponytail and plucking an eyelash from her cheek. She doesn’t blow to make a wish. She doesn’t even acknowledge me as she turns to leave. Even her exit is graceful.

Bitch. I bet she owns horses and believes in astrology.

I give up on trying to remedy my own mess. At this point, I’m not just late by Cass’s exaggerated definition of late. I’m late late. She’s definitely going to chew me out.

I realize my hands are trembling. I’m still shook up by the whole ordeal. Though that could be the coffee. Or the hangover. Or the free-flowing anxiety that I’ve got running on tap.

I still can’t believe he didn’t at least ask me if I was okay. Dude was massive. He could’ve sent me flying, instead of my phone and coffee.

And what about that smirk? Who the hell does he think he is?

Never mind the fact that I blew him a kiss, like some deranged pervert. If it were the other way around and he had done that to me, I may have actually thrown up in my mouth.

Am I the jackass here? Is Tall & Handsome currently sitting in the sedan nursing a bruised ego while he mourns the loss of his pride?

Probably not. I bet he’s telling his driver about the freak who cannonballed into him and ruined his suit. They’re probably laughing at my expense.

God, I hate people. Truly. I don’t even like leaving my cave of an apartment. I prefer to keep humans at arm’s length. My chosen vocation makes this easy, but occasionally I have to crawl out of my cave and go out into the bright world filled with jerks and public masturbators and serial killers and literary agents.

I hazard a glance at my reflection, which is never a good idea, especially since every public restroom is lit specifically to make women feel like shit.

To say I look like shit would be kind. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’ve got the bags under my eyes to prove it. My lips are chapped from constant picking (nervous habit), and my face really could’ve used a last-minute wash before bolting out the door. Somehow, my strawberry blonde hair looks okay, but that’s just because the messy bun hides the grease. I’m sure it’s full of knots.

I wipe a stray bit of crust from the corner of my eye. Gun to my head, if I had to choose one physical feature I like about myself, it would probably be my eyes. At first glance, they’re green, but if you look closer you’ll see a tiny constellation of different colors in my irises. Heterochromia is the technical term.

Tall & Handsome also had green eyes…

Ugh.

“Get your shit together,” I tell my reflection.

I splash some cold water on my face and find a tube of lip balm buried at the bottom of my bag. That’s slightly better. Nothing can be done about my outfit at this point, but oh well.

My phone dings with a text message. Every time I get a text, my heart feels like it’s going to drop into my stomach. I’m always convinced it’s something bad. Like my landlord telling me my place is flooded. Or my agent firing me because I’m ten minutes late to a meeting. Or someone accidentally AirDropping me a photo of their nether regions.

I always have to look and see who the text is from, because I’ve convinced myself that if I don’t then I might miss something crucial, like my parents’ final farewell to me before their plane explodes in the sky.

You never know.

Fumbling with my phone screen, I see that the text is from Geoffrey, my editor. I make an executive decision not to open the text right now. If I’m going to manage my anxiety before I talk to Cass, then I need to compartmentalize the rest of today’s potential stress. Scheduling emotions is a rewarding exercise that keeps me from going insane. I highly recommend it.

Geoffrey will have to wait.

Judging by the careful tone of Cass’s email that summoned me this morning, something’s up. For a moment, I feel like crying. But I take a deep breath, dreading having to let it back out.

Time to go.