Chapter 3
I was mid-dream. Something about floating down a lazy river made of whiskey, surrounded by cheerleaders in an astronaut uniform.
I tried not to sleep much because not all my dreams were of whiskey-soaked riverbeds.
Most of the time they were nightmares. The sweaty, screaming kind that woke me up and didn’t let me fall back to sleep.
The knock came sharp and loud, like the real world was smacking me on the head with a hammer.
I ignored it. Obviously. Nobody knocked on my door.
Despite my denial, the second knock came. Louder this time. I grunted, rolled over, and buried my face in the couch pillow that still smelled like burnt rice from the time I tried to warm it up in the microwave to put on my neck after I had held onto a tree branch during a howling hurricane.
I was fully awake when the third knock came. Followed by a pause. Then another. Slightly less urgent and more of a tap-tap.
I blinked at the ceiling. “If this is Jehovah’s Witnesses, I swear to God you’ll wish I were already dead.”
I pulled myself up. My joints protested. My blanket fell to the floor. The laptop on the coffee table had gone dark hours ago, although I knew if I tickled the mouse pad, it would kick back to life, and the screen would still be open to my latest YouTube video.
Another knock.
“Jesus, okay!”
I stumbled toward the door. T-shirt inside out. One sock on. Hair probably looked like I’d fought someone in my sleep, and maybe I had. But I didn’t care who saw me. I had no one in my life who mattered. Uber Eats left food and vanished, and besides them, literally no one else came here.
I opened the door to find a man standing in the doorway.
Shorter than me, although I was 6’1, so a lot of people were.
He was probably in his early thirties, if I had to guess.
Curly brown hair that he had clearly tried to tame and failed as it sprung out around his head in model worthy waves.
He wore wire-rimmed glasses. I didn’t know if they were just for show or if he actually needed them.
A bag was slung over his shoulder, and he wasn’t smiling.
In fact, he looked wrecked, like he hadn’t slept.
And I had no fucking clue who he was. I made a noise in the back of my throat as if to say, “Can I help you?”
“Danny?” he said.
I blinked. “Who’s asking?”
He let out a breath. “I’m Carter.”
I stared.
“My—your editor. Carter. From the channel.”
I continued staring.
“We’ve talked for over a year.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why are you here?”
He blinked. Then exhaled and walked inside without asking. Just brushed past me like we were buddies getting ready to watch the game together.
I shut the door slowly behind him. “Sure. Come on in. Make yourself at home. You want a LaCroix?”
He turned back to me, holding up his phone.
And there it was. On the screen in front of me. The letter.
IfYoureReadingThis_FINAL.pdf
There in all its glory, displayed in blue-light horror.
My stomach dropped. “Oh,” I said.
“You sent it to me by accident,” he accused.
I nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much. Whoops. My bad.”
Silence.
“So…” he said, voice a little shaky, “is it real?”
I shrugged, heart pounding. “Doesn’t really matter if it is, don’t ya think?”
He lowered the phone.
“I didn’t mean to send it,” I added. “But I didn’t try to unsend it, either. I didn’t know if I could do that. But that probably tells you everything you need to know.”
He looked around the room as if it held answers. But all he saw was a crumpled blanket, a crumpled receipt from my dinner order the night before, and a crumpled me.
“Danny,” he said, voice lower now, “you’ve been doing these stunts for what—eighteen months?”
“Yup.”
“Twenty of them?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“The whole time you actually wanted to die?”
I shrugged again. “I wanted the universe to do it for me, but clearly it didn’t.”
“So what now? You’re gonna do it?”
I didn’t answer.
He looked like he was holding something down—grief or rage or disbelief. Maybe all three. It unnerved me.
“I can’t let you,” he finally said, lips set in a determined grimace.
“You can’t stop me.” I almost laughed. “And you have nothing to do with this.”
“You made me a part of it, Danny.”
That made me flinch. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”
“You sent me the letter.”
“By accident.”
“But it wasn’t a draft. You signed it. You wrote it like it was done.”
I looked away. The floor was safer than his face.
“You’ve got millions of people watching your videos. They’ll be horrified.”
“They don’t know me.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
He stepped closer. “Danny, I’ve edited your footage for almost two years. Every clip. Every scene. I’ve watched you almost fall off the top of a moving car and scream into a storm and laugh like you’d finally lost your mind. You may not really talk to me, but I know you.”
I swallowed. Hard.
“I know you don’t want help,” he said. “I know you think this is inevitable. But I’m standing here. In your shitty apartment. Because I care.”
“Fuck you. My apartment is great.” It wasn’t.
That word. Care. I wanted to punch it. Rip it apart. Scream. Instead, I laughed. Sharp and ugly. “What’s your plan, Carter? Are you gonna inspire me out of it with a Ted Talk? Show me cute cat videos until I change my mind?”
“No,” he said, flinching. “I want you to agree to go to therapy.”
“Fuck no.”
“Danny—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
He paused, looking at me like he was recalibrating.
“Okay,” he acquiesced, as if he had any say in this at all. “Then let’s make a deal.”
“Carter. You need to shut the fuck up.”
He ignored me.
“You did twenty death-defying stunts. So do twenty therapy sessions. After that I’ll leave you alone.”
I shook my head. “They are not even close to being the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because one is dying slowly in a chair while someone asks about your mother and the other is swimming with literal sharks.”
He didn’t budge; his eyes bulged a little behind his glasses. “Twenty sessions. And if you still want to go through with it after that, I promise I’ll back off.”
I stared. “You’re serious.”
He nodded. “Completely.”
“I don’t do therapy.”
“Fine,” he said. “Not therapy. Life coach.”
I choked. “That’s worse.”
“I’ll find someone who won’t ask about your feelings. Someone who won’t even try to fix you. Just show up and talk. Or don’t. But go twenty times. That’s the deal.”
“And if I say no?”
He squared his shoulders. “I’ll delete your whole channel. You’ll disappear. Your whole legacy will be gone.”
“You can’t do that. I’ll change my password.”
He scoffed. “Don’t insult my hacking abilities.”
I squirmed, my bare foot rubbing along the ragged edge of the rug.
“Your channel is your proof,” he continued. “Of what you did. What you survived. What you tried. You want to be remembered after this, right?”
I didn’t answer. Did I?
“Twenty sessions,” he repeated. “Or it’s all gone.”
The silence between us stretched.
I hated him. For showing up. For caring. For seeing me even if he had no idea who I really was.
I hated that I was considering saying yes.
Finally, I sighed. Painfully. Feeling wounded by his threat but more so by his concern. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I show up to twenty sessions. Nothing more. And no therapy bullshit. If she says the word ‘inner child,’ I’m out.”
He smiled, exhausted. Relieved. “Deal. I’ll find someone, and I’ll send you their info when I do. I’ll even make your first appointment.”
“Carter?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a crazy motherfucker.”
He laughed. “No, my guy. That’s you.”
I didn’t say anything. He wasn’t wrong.
But for the first time in a long time, I felt something other than empty. I wasn’t sure if it was dread. Or relief.