Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Build the Life You Want.
Secrets to a Happy Marriage.
Life Sucks. Get Used to It.
I could’ve written the last one…
My eyes catch on a stand near the checkout section. It’s half empty, but what remains are spiral-bound journals with bright splashes of color. Rainbows and sunrises and the sort.
I reach out and pick one up. Scrawled across the front is It’s never too late to start writing a new chapter. I stare at it, slipping back into the before world, when I got to see my own patients. When I’d ask them to pick out a journal and write in it every day as part of their therapy. Dr. Alexander assigned no such task, but a little self-assigned homework never hurts. I look to the register, where the two employees are chitchatting away, paying no attention to the patrons. I make a rash decision and tuck the journal into my purse. My heart starts to pound, a frantic whoosh of blood filling my ears. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. And I’m certain I have a few hundred dollars in my wallet, not to mention two or three credit cards. I have no idea why the hell I do it, but I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin with every step I take toward the door. Once I’m outside, I keep walking, power walking almost, until I get to the end of the block, turn right, and duck into the doorway of a store that isn’t open yet. Then I can’t help it. I smile. It feels exhilarating.
It takes a few minutes for my heartbeat to slow. A glance at my watch tells me it’s time. So I head to my post, stop one on my daily Gabriel Wright tour. He comes out right on time as usual.
It’s easy enough to not be seen as I follow. The morning rush of people headed to work, to the gym, to the subway, is my camouflage. He strides down the sidewalk, hands tucked into leather gloves and holding nothing, headed north. I let him pass, wait five seconds, then follow.
Within a couple of minutes, I know where he’s heading—the same place he went yesterday. Instead of continuing on to Columbia, he takes a left, then another. This time, I stop across the street and press my phone to my face, turning partially away. He enters the redbrick building lined with dozens of little windows that is Manhattan Mini Storage and disappears through the glass door. The same light flicks on as yesterday. This time I count—twelve tiny windows down from the entrance. I haven’t gone as far as to follow him inside yet. I’m too afraid he’ll see me. Though I am curious what he’s doing in there. Plenty of New Yorkers have storage lockers. With minuscule apartments, it’s often a necessity. But yesterday he came with nothing and left with nothing. Was he sorting through boxes? Organizing things? Looking for something in particular? I suppose whatever it was, he didn’t find it. Maybe that’s why he’s back again.
A breeze picks up, whipping my hair around my face. I reach for it, tie it at the nape of my neck, and hazard a glance at the sky. It’s been cloudy all morning, but those clouds have darkened. With the high buildings all around me, it’s claustrophobia-inducing—like the sky might actually fall on me, and there’s no escape. But then, soon enough, Gabriel emerges and my blood starts pumping—the same as when I slipped that journal into my purse and walked out of the bookstore a thief. He’s again empty-handed, again headed uptown toward Columbia—and I hurry to not lose him.
His classes are the same on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so after he enters his building, I know I’ve got two hours before he’ll emerge and take a lunch break. I find a bench and sit, withdrawing the journal I stole, feeling in my purse for a pen. Around me, students walk to class, clutching satchels or shouldering backpacks. Few seem dressed warmly enough for the brisk autumn day.
I suddenly feel eyes on me, a steady gaze, and I look up, searching for its source. But there’s only a passel of students, a group of sorority girls, all bottle-blond, all wearing matching sweatshirts—no one in particular is watching. Probably I’m imagining it. It makes sense that I feel paranoid, considering what I’ve done at the bookstore, and that I’m sitting around waiting for a man to come out who doesn’t know I’ve been following him. I search around me once more, but it’s just college students crisscrossing campus.
I push the thought aside and write about the past week. About seeing Gabriel in the coffee shop and following him. About wondering how long he can go on pretending to be happy. About the twelfth window in Manhattan Mini Storage, and Columbia University, the sprawling campus in the middle of jam-packed upper Manhattan.