I don’t move. It’s like there’s gum stuck to the bottom of my vintage Gucci loafers, anchoring me to the sidewalk. If I go in, there’s no turning back. I’ll be in Scotland. In some weird life limbo. Dealing with things I don’t want to think about.

And it’s terrifying and daunting to be standing in the doorway of my new beginning, staring down a long oriental rug like it’s a barrel of a gun.

But I have nothing waiting for me in New York. I’ve burned all my bridges. Tarnished my reputation. Going back isn’t an option.

So I step into the house and take a deep breath and choke on the scent of burning sage and, well, marijuana.

“Eva says I need to cleanse my energy.”

“I… think it’s sufficiently cleansed.”

I, however, am not. There aren’t enough sage smudge sticks in the world to get rid of all my bad energy. My chakras are so out of line that I’m pretty sure I’m throwing the whole world off balance.

“How was your flight?” she asks. “Did you have any issues finding Freya? And more importantly, did she drive safely?”

“I’m here in one piece,” I say. Barely.

“That girl’s got a led foot,” she says. “She must get it from her father, who has led for a fucking brain.”

She’s being generous. I’m not sure Eddie Dunbar has much left upstairs, led or otherwise. He’s the lead singer of The Filthy Doorknobs, who definitely did not leave the 80s unscathed. I’ve passed by enough made-for-TV documentaries to know that no one lived the sex, drugs, and rock and roll lifestyle without losing a few parts of themselves to it—brains, morality, and probably a few teeth.

“I suppose we should start the grand tour,” she says. “Though, I imagine it’s not all that grand. Holly tells me you’re from California?”

“Yeah, originally. I grew up in Beverly Hills,” I say, following her down the long hall that’s painted cornflower blue and lined with dozens of picture frames. “But I’ve been living in New York City since college.”

“Where did you study?”

“Columbia.”

“And you worked in public relations?”

I swallow down the stomach acid that’s burning through my esophagus. “Yes.”

“How exciting!” she says. “You must have met loads of celebrities.”

I smile tightly and follow her into the living room. It’s painted the same cornflower blue, heavy yellow drapes covering the windows. I walk over the creaky wooden planks and take in the cozy vibes. HGTV would call this grandma chic. Two plaid love seats. A matching oval ottoman. A roaring fireplace. And a shelf of records from the 60s.