Funny how I didn’t feel like I’d lost myself until everything came crashing down the other night.

But it was going to be alright. I had some money saved from my time at the firm—certainly not enough to get me through school, rent an apartment, and buy all new furniture, but I’d figure it out.

I always did.

Warmth spread through me at the familiar sights of downtown Boston when I stepped off the train. How I loved the fall leaves here. How I missed it.

I did miss it, didn’t I?

I needed to miss it. Because if I didn’t… what else would I have? The ball in my chest flamed up again because I was afraid to face the answer to that.

Because I couldn’t have one of my panic attacks here in public. Or hell, here alone since I was nearly the last one on the platform.

Happy thoughts.

Safe thoughts.

Things will feel back to normal here.

Home. Where no one judged me or told me what to wear to a dinner party. Or to cancel my Friday night plans of staying in to watch a movie in my pajamas because we had to make an appearance at Chateau de Rue, one of the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan.

I didn’t have a ton of friends in college, but the ones I hung out with lived normal lives. And I was aching to get back to that kind of normal.

Not that I needed it, but here, I was perfectly accepted just as I was—in whatever the hell I chose to wear. More often than not, you’d find my straight brown hair in a sloppy top bun or just hanging loose. Evan preferred the tight ponytail look, which probably was the cause of many headaches.

Evan liked it when I wore make up, or as he referred to it, “throwing some color on my face.” If there was one thing I would not be modest about, it was my flawless completion. I had incredibly clear skin and even tones. Good genes and eating right. Bells always insisted I didn’t need makeup when I tried it. “A sweep of mascara and a hint of gloss is all you need.”

But I was no knockout.

Not like some of the Carson-club girls.

It was easy to become one of those. Amicable and responsive to all, Carson was your average Mr. Congeniality. Every girl who threw him a look he’d acknowledge with a tempting grin—but not necessarily inviting. Always just enough.

The guy had it down to a science.

The way he spoke to people. The way he walked. The way he deftly handled every situation—with ease and class.

I watched him perfect the skill all through college too, except for senior year, after I’d skipped town. But I was sure he made out just fine.