Come on, Rex. Hands interlaced on the top of my head, I place one foot in front of the other until I make a wide circle around the porte cochère. Two wide circles and I’m breathing a little easier.

Turning back toward the doors, I nearly bump into a tall, brown-skinned man wearing a white coat over scrubs. My insides jump. He looks about ten years younger than my father, though. False alarm.

Back to the plan. Let’s go!

This time I run (damn near fly!) through the doors and down the waxy hospital floors toward the elevators. Shoes squeaking, I pass a man walking in Wranglers and a cowboy hat like he’s standing still.

In the elevator I close my eyes and see Carli’s face in front of 1604. I push sixteen and it lights up. I can’t believe I’m about to see her again. A mixture of ease and excitement wash over me. Then the metal doors slide closed, and I’m staring at my reflection.

My chest tightens.

I swear anytime I catch my reflection, it’s looking at me funny. Thick brows (like my father’s) tense like they wish I would step to them. Big lips (like my father’s) perfectly still like they have nothing to say to me and never will. All my moles like tiny unforgiveable sins.

See, this is exactly why I don’t keep a mirror in my bathroom. Instead I keep a sticky note that says You’re good. The only time I intentionally look in the mirror is once a week in the chair at the barbershop. Gotta make sure the high-top fade is on point.

And it is. Sponged the top this morning. Don’t need to do much else but let the barber keep the lineup fresh. And I went yesterday, so I’m cool. With my fingertips, I brush the edge where my hair meets my forehead and tell myself, You’re good.

But my reflection tells me that’s a lie. Dude, what are you doing? I don’t remember anybody inviting you.

And he’s right. The only reason I know about Carli’s surgery is because I’ve been stalking her brother’s IG. What if she thinks I’m crazy when I show up? The red number above the elevator doors blinks to eleven, and I push buttons twelve through fifteen to buy more time.

When the doors open on twelve, two buff-looking dudes in blue scrubs walk on. “Thirteen plea—” the blond one starts before he sees it’s already lit up. The dark-haired one stands behind him, talking about a lady over-waxing his eyebrows. Then a man rolling a pregnant lady in a wheelchair gets on and stands right beside me.

Really? I close my eyes and brace myself for the weight.

But it doesn’t come.