The way he says this as if it’s a question makes my chest tighten. ‘I can’t promise I won’t be hit by a car or die in a fiery plane crash, but I can promise that I won’t take that bottle of pills in my purse and swim out into the open ocean.’

The muscle in his jaw twitches. ‘That’s how you were going to do it.’

I nod as I think of that bottle of pills. ‘Can you go in my purse and flush that bottle of pills? And, while you’re at it, break all those cigarettes?’

‘Are you sure about the cigarettes?’

‘Yes. I think . . . and this is so hard to admit because it makes me feel disgusting and stupid, but I think the drugs were making me worse.’

He brushes my hair out of my face and kisses my forehead. ‘You are neither disgusting nor stupid.’

‘Yeah, but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel that way. The only good thing about drugs is that they make you forget how awful you feel about being a junkie. Just get rid of them. All of them.’

‘Anything else you want me to do before we head out of here?’

I bite my lip as I work up the courage to ask him, then I decide I’ll wait until we’re at his apartment. It will be better when we’re in his domain.

I kiss his nose and shake my head. ‘Nope.’

*****

I insist on us showering together to save time, but the truth is I just want to feel at ease with him the way I felt yesterday. I want to step into his apartment knowing that barrier has already been broken. I want to feel comfortable with every part of his body. He is not the one who scarred me.

The entire journey through the hotel and down to the car, I’m worried that the hotel staff will recognize me as the suicidal girl in the Garden Suite. The moment we slide into the backseat of the town car, Crush kisses my cheek and my body relaxes a little. He’s grinning like a fool and it dawns on me that he doesn’t care what any of these people think about us.

‘Why are you smiling?’

He shoots off the address to the driver before he answers my question. ‘Just really fucking excited to show you my place. Put your seatbelt on.’

I smile as I reach for the seatbelt and pull it across my chest. He helps me get the buckle in and seizes the opportunity to steal another kiss. It’s a soft peck on the lips, his mouth lingering just long enough for me to know he wants more, but he’ll wait.

The car turns the corner onto the highway and I sigh as I lean back and think of how many times Crush has saved my life. I hope he never has to save my life again. I have to call my therapist and see if I can get in for an appointment as soon as I get back. I need a referral so I can change my meds – again.

Having a mental illness is like riding a really fast merry-go-round that never stops. There’s no escape. You’re stuck. But once in a while, you can give the operator some good drugs and he’ll slow it down a little; just enough for you to see the trees and the normal people as they stroll by. But that ride operator needs to be supplied often. And sometimes, like any typical junkie, he’s just plain unreliable. He stops showing up and you’re spinning again. You can’t see clearly.

Sometimes, I guess, you can supply that merry-go-round operator with something else that feels like a drug: Love. It’s probably only temporary, and I’m sure my inner junkie will soon need something more than love to get by. But right now, I’m going to sit back and enjoy getting my circuits blown out by William ‘Crush’ Slayer.

Fawcett Street is a small one-way street running almost parallel to the train tracks that seems as if it curves into nowhere land or some type of industrial area. But as soon as the driver takes the curve, the huge building on the left is obviously not industrial. The brick- and slate-faced apartment building is approximately the length of a city block and about six stories tall. A girl bundled up in earmuffs and snow boots and carrying a paper bag of groceries wrenches opens one of the three sleek silver entrance doors and disappears inside.

Crush gets out of the car, but the driver beats him to my door. The driver opens the door for me to get out and I flash him a tight smile as I take Crush’s hand so he can help me out.

‘Watch your step,’ he says, indicating the curb that’s almost entirely buried in fresh snow.

We hustle to get inside and out of the storm. The moment we step through the silver doors, I’m mesmerized by the entrance area. All the furnishings and architecture are sleek and precise; from the cherry reception counter on our left to the sitting area directly ahead of us where three people are sitting in boxy armchairs in front of a fireplace, their fingers clicking speedily over the keyboards of their laptops and phones.

Crush leads me past the reception desk to an elevator. I feel really uncomfortable, like I don’t belong here. All these people probably go to Harvard or MIT, or went there at some point in their lives. And here I am, a bipolar girl with suicidal tendencies who goes to community college. Crush and I are from totally different worlds.

The elevator doors slide open and it takes me a moment to realize I should step inside. He presses the button for the fifth floor then turns to me.

‘Are you all right?’

‘What do you think your parents will think when they find out about me? Because my parents were obviously very happy to finally meet the person who saved my life, and they don’t even know how many times you’ve saved me. Will you tell your parents what happened to me? I’m not sure I could handle them knowing.’

‘Don’t let what my parents may or may not think about you worry you. If you never want to meet them, that’s fine with me. Or, if you want, we can pretend to be roommates.’ He winks at me and my stomach flips. ‘Bottom line is, my parents opinions have no bearing on how I feel about you or anyone else for that matter. And they never will. The only person who ever really knew me, other than Jordan, was Grandpa Hugh. And believe me when I say that both of them would have loved you.’

The doors slide open and he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me forward. A guy in jeans and a thick, gray parka glances at me before he nods at Crush, then pulls a navy-blue knit cap over his head. He’s getting ready to brave the storm. Crush nods back at the guy and I smile, in case he glances at me again, but he doesn’t.

We reach the door for apartment 522 and my entire body is buzzing with nervous energy. I’m excited to get inside and see where he lives, but I’m also anxious about what’s going to happen in there.

He pushes the door open and the first thought that comes to my mind also comes out of my mouth. ‘Hey, this is pretty normal.’

He laughs as I walk farther inside, taking in the modern but not spectacularly sleek open kitchen with the two swivel bar stools. I try not to imagine that he’s sat there before and had breakfast with some other girl.

As this thought crosses my mind, he comes up behind me and whispers in my ear. ‘Can I take your coat?’

I unbutton my wool coat and let him slip it off of me, then I unzip my black hoodie and pull it off as he hangs up my coat in a closet. I hand him the hoodie and he hangs that up too, then he puts his own coat away.

‘I have to say, I really like your apartment. I was sort of expecting some penthouse apartment or something really outrageous with a floating staircase and servants’ quarter.’

He smiles as he heads into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. ‘You should know by now that I’m a bit more low-key than that. Do you want water, beer, or orange juice? That’s all I have.’

I consider this for a moment, thinking that the beer will probably make this easier. But just as it will dull the anxiety, it will also dull the pleasure.

‘Water.’

He hands me the water and I take a seat on the bar stool to drink my beverage.

‘Do you want a tour?’

‘Oh, I didn’t realize your apartment was an attraction. Sure. I’ll take a tour. How much—’

I almost ask how much the tour is going to cost, but I stop myself. That’s unintended sexual innuendo. After the attack, I had to train myself to avoid these, especially when alone with a male in an enclosed space. I read a study that said men who are sexually excited lose a great deal of their reasoning ability. What I took away from that is that I had to be careful never to get a guy sexually excited. Which is why I never went beyond first-base with a guy and there were times where I even pretended to be a bad kisser.

He stands a few feet away from the bar stool where I sit and holds out his hand. I jump off the stool and grab his hand, letting him lead me through the living-room area toward a dimly lit corridor. He flips a couple of switches on the wall and the hallway blazes with warm light. His bedroom door is wide open, so I walk ahead of him and my hand instantly finds the light switch just inside the doorframe.

The bedroom is a bit nicer than the rest of the apartment. This space seems to have the most personal touch. Everything from the guitars hanging on the wall, the upright piano and mixing equipment in the corner, and the soft gray decor, feels like Crush.

I turn around to face him as he stands in the doorway, awaiting my assessment, and I hold out my hand to him. He takes my hand and I pull him toward the far wall with the large almost floor-to-ceiling windows.

‘The balcony is off the living room. Come on, I’ll show it to you.’

I squeeze his hand tighter to stop him. ‘I don’t want to see the balcony. I want you to sing for me.’ I glance at the piano in the corner and he smiles. ‘I’ve been dying to hear you play piano. I was going to ask you to sing “Black Box” for me, but, now that I see that piano, can you sing something else? Something I haven’t heard before?’

He chuckles then plants a soft kiss on my lips. ‘Of course I’ll play for you. What do you want to hear?’

I laugh at this. ‘What are you, a jukebox? You know every song there is?’

‘Not every song, but I know a lot of them. And if I don’t know it, I can at least try.’

I think about this for a while, then I think of a song I heard last week, which filled me with so much sadness because I was certain I would never find that kind of love.

Chapter 41: MIKKI – January 7th

‘It’s an Elvis Presley song. “I Can’t Help Falling In Love.”’

I don’t know why I’m so nervous about asking him to sing this song. He’s the one who should be nervous. But he just flashes me that confident smile and leads me toward the piano in the corner as if he takes song requests all day long.

‘Sit.’ He pats the wooden piano bench for me to sit next to him. ‘I do know this song. I know just about every Elvis song there is. And it just so happens that this is an easy song to play. So I’m going to play it once, then I’m going to teach you how to play it.’

I laugh pretty hard at this and he waits patiently for me to finish. ‘I have no musical talent. We’ll be here all night if you try to teach me this song.’

‘I wouldn’t mind being here all night with you.’ He kisses my jaw and I close my eyes, wishing I understood the science of how he can make me feel this way with such a simple gesture. ‘I’ll teach you the first verse and I can teach you the rest later. Deal?’

I open my eyes and nod. ‘Deal.’

The first chords he plays are soft and lulling. Then he looks me straight in the eye as he sings the first line about fools rushing into love and I bite my lip against the surge of emotion his voice brings. But the second line is all it takes to make me cry. He looks back and forth between the black and white keys and, through the tears, I keep my gaze locked on his beautiful face. When he sings the part about some things being meant to be, there is no question in my mind that everything in my life has led to this one moment. As he arrives at the last verse, I do as the song says and I take his hand. He stops playing and looks into my eyes as he sings the last two lines to me a cappella.