One Week Later…
My bare foot taps against the floor uncontrollably. My toes rise and fall against the anchor of my heel in rapid successions, as if they’re battery-operated.
My arms have become so tense that I think they might snap right off my shoulders at the slightest motion, so I keep them crossed over my chest and stare at the old, washed-out duffel bag in silent resignation.
I’ve been at this practically all day and I still haven’t made any progress. Not even a little bit.
Jesus, why am I overthinking this so much?
Because you’ve never had to pack to spend an entire weekend at a man’s house before—a man who’s pretty much promised to fuck your brains out while you’re there, no less. Duh!
God, I’m going to pass out.
First, I’m going to hyperventilate, then choke on my own spit, and then pass out.
I’m trying to breathe normally, but normal is the furthest thing from what I feel. I start to shake again, my skin vibrating with a level of anxiety I’ve never felt before. But I guess all my agitation is not without good reason.
Today is the day.
I can’t believe it’s happening; my first session with Frost.