I turn to stare at the monitor, and the blood drains from my face. A video taken with someone’s phone was uploaded onto Facebook and is now front and center on the news. Shots spraying out into the crowd. Costumed partygoers running and screaming. A woman wearing large, sparkling wings falls to the floor. People run. It’s a mass exodus toward the door. They’re being trampled. I was there. My hands shake.

“Oh no. Lauren, a-are you okay? Shit. Don’t tell me you were at that club. Or someone you know?” Her eyes widen.

I’m completely stunned.

Somehow, my legs bring me to the other end of the counter. Flashes of Vegas hit me like a freight train. Feeling down about no longer fitting in with my friends. Dancing with Slade and drinking tequila. His hot lips on my neck. And then the shooting. He pulled me out. Practically dragged me.

My life has been sliced in two. With one event, I’m on a different trajectory. I can’t even imagine going back into work. What’s the point? Why am I even still alive right now? I could have died.

The office must be exactly how I left it—cold, organized, and perfectly functional. Jonathan will run to my desk in his tailored suit with one hundred and one questions. I wouldn’t have even sat, and he’ll be on top of me, barking orders.

My mind jumbles. I’m sweating. I roll up the sleeves of my favorite DVF printed blouse, trying to get more air onto my skin. The strap of my Chanel bag digs into my shoulder, reminding me that I’m out in public. But I’m shutting down, my breaths labored. The walls feel as though they were caving in on me. Since I got home, I’ve been functioning on autopilot. But it’s all coming out now.

“Lauren!” the guy across the counter shouts out my name, alerting me that my tea is ready.

I step forward like I’ve done so many times before, taking my drink off the counter. “Ahhhhh!” I drop the paper cup to the ground as boiling water splatters all over the floor.

The people around me quickly step back.

“I’m sorry. Oh my God.” I cup my hands over my mouth as the scorching water burns my bare ankles.

“It’s my fault,” he says in a rush. “I forgot to use the sleeve.”

He chews his lip when a short guy with cropped hair comes running toward me with a mop.

“No worries, ma’am. Just step aside. I’ve got it.”

I want to move, but I can’t. My jaw is locked open. I look down at my white Louboutin pumps, which are now tinged with green. Should I be crying?

Leigh shows up next to me, taking my arm. “Is there someone I can call?” she whispers, ushering me to the side.

I feel unhinged.

“R-restroom?” My voice comes out in a stutter.

She helps me to the back. I focus on a shelf full of old books lining the wall.