Taking a Chance: A Novella Read online

  Taking a Chance

  By Becky Monson

  Taking a Chance

  Copyright © 2016 Becky Monson

  Cover Art by Angela Talley Smith

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law.

  Other Books by Becky

  Thirty-Two Going on Spinster

  Thirty-Three Going on Girlfriend

  Thirty-Four Going on Bride

  Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace

  Once Again in Christmas Falls

  Just a Name

  Just a Girl

  Connect with Becky

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  CONTENTS

  Other Books by Becky

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  To Sadie,

  Who never got a chance to go to the top of the

  Empire State Building but is up in the clouds,

  watching over us always.

  Chapter 1

  “Are you okay?” the guy next to me asks. At least I think it’s a guy; his voice is low enough. I can’t seem to look up from the floor to verify. What I can see, though, are tan cargo shorts and fairly muscular, hairy calves, so that would lead me to believe he’s a dude. Although I’ve met my share of woman with hairy legs, which is, you know, girl power and all that.

  Am I okay? That’s a loaded question. Here’s the short answer: nope. I am totally not okay. You would think by the way I’m holding on to the shiny brass handrails he would know that. Maybe it’s one of those rhetorical questions. Because honestly, there could be permanent nerve damage to my hands, I’m gripping so tightly. Mind you, if this tiny box-sized deathtrap suddenly fell off its rails and plummeted to the bottom of the building, I doubt my grasp on this bar would do anything to help me survive the crash.

  Now why would my brain even go there? I might start hyperventilating. What was it that my Google search last night told me to do? Right. I remember. Look around me and find five things I can see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, two things I can smell, and one thing I can taste.

  Here’s the problem with that. When you’re on the verge of losing it, you don’t have time to do any of those things. Maybe if I just focus on part of it. If I only do half, maybe I’ll have half a panic attack. Totally logical. That’s just mathematics, right there. Okay, so I’ll just skip to two things I can smell. That’s easy: body odor, and I’m pretty sure the woman next to me just passed gas. And one thing I can taste: my own bile.

  This is not working. I cannot half-ass a panic attack.

  “Seriously, are you okay?” Cargo Shorts asks me.

  “Huh?” I pull my eyes up from their focus on the floor, up long legs and a rather lengthy torso, past a nice strong jaw that has a bit of stubble even at this time in the morning, and into a pair of intense brown eyes. Yep, he’s for sure a dude. A very good-looking dude, actually, who looks concerned. And he should be—I’m likely to barf on his leather flip-flops at any moment.

  Wow, his eyes are chocolaty brown. Like pools of melted fudge. The contrast against the whites of his eyes is striking. And on closer inspection, the brown is rimmed with gold. I’ve never seen eyes like that in all my twenty-four years. They’re the kind of eyes that make you think of two-story colonials with white picket fences, minivans, and babies. My hormones begin chatting among themselves; this is far more excitement than they’ve seen in a while.

  “You okay?” Brown-eyed Handsomeness asks again. His eyes change from genuine concern to a more worried look. Because I’m totally ogling. Elena would so mock me if she were here.

  Of course, if Elena were here, then I wouldn’t be. Which makes me wish even more that she were here. I clear my throat and look away, back down to the floor.

  “I think I’m having a nervous breakdown, actually,” I say, finally finding the words to reply. Wow, that sounded utterly melodramatic. Yep, Elena would be mocking me for sure, and I’d deserve it.

  Someone in the crowded elevator snickers. I look up from the floor to make sure it wasn’t him. It wasn’t.

  “A nervous breakdown?” he repeats, the corners of his mouth lifting. Is he laughing at me? Because if he is, I know exactly where to focus my hurling, if and when I actually do it.

  “Yep,” I say, and remember to breathe slowly out of my mouth. Google told me taking slow, deep breaths would help. Google, I’m realizing, is a big fat liar.

  I close my eyes so the spinning stops. How can a two-minute ride feel like an eternity?

  “Ah,” he says with an air of Sherlock in his voice, as if he just put all the clues together to figure me out. “Claustrophobia.”

  “I’m not claustrophobic,” I say, although I sort of am. But that’s not why I’m freaking out right now.

  “Acrophobia?”

  “I’m not scared of spiders,” I snap, opening my eyes so he can see the annoyance in them. My ocean-colored eyes may not be as striking as his chocolate ones, but they can definitely pack a punch when needed.

  He chuckles, unaffected by my glare. “Acrophobia is a fear of heights.”

  Oh, right. I knew that. So along with hyperventilating, sweaty palms (and let’s be honest—pits), and nausea, heights can also cause brain fog.

  Yes, I’m afraid of heights. I’m also slightly scared of elevators and crowds. I’m not going to tell him this, though. He’d wonder why I was here in the first place, since that pretty much makes up this entire experience: small spaces, crowds, and heights.

  The elevator makes an odd jerking movement, and I white knuckle the handrail, closing my eyes again. Maybe if I close them tight enough, I can wish myself away from this situation. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

  “Hey,” Brown-eyed Hot Guy says, his voice gentle. “We’re almost there.” He puts a hand on my shoulder.

  Normally, my body would have a full-throttle jump of rejection at his touch. I don’t do touch from strangers. I’m not a touchy-feely person even with people I’ve known my entire life. But for some reason his touch feels . . . not terrible. My hormones would have to agree.

  “Yeah, I know we’re almost there,” I say, opening my eyes and looking up. “But I have to get on another elevator and go even higher.”

  “Ah,” he says, nodding his head slowly, rhythmically. He removes his hand from my shoulder, and I oddly wish that he hadn’t. “So you’re going to the very top.”

  “I’m only doing this once,” I say, looking into his perfect eyes. “So I might as well do it right.”

  Like the sound of an angel getting its wings, the elevator dings and comes to a stop. Hail Mary full of grace, I survived. I made it without throwing up or making a complete fool of myself. Well, okay, I made a complete fool of myself, but it could have been far worse. Like plummeting to my death.

  The doors open, and I make a beeline out of the elevator, ready to push through anyone that gets in my way. Thankfully, the people in the elevator part like the Red Sea and allow me to pass. I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I leave because I’m pretty sure I know what I’d see there—pity, with a mixture of “she’s certifiable.” They’d be right; I am certifiable. For so many reasons.

  Without even a glance out the tall windows, or at the people on the observation deck beyond those windows, I walk to the next elevator, where the line is fairly long. Normally I hate long lines like pretty much any other human, but today I don’t mind so much. It’s giving me a little time to calm down. Although at this point, I think something synthetic would do the job better. Xanax, Klonopin . . . anesthesia. Luckily, this elevator is a much shorter ride. Google said thirty-six seconds. If it’s any longer than that, I will sue Google.

  I get behind a rather large man and say a silent prayer that I get to be on a different elevator than him. I’m not being judgy here. I just really don’t want to be in a car that is anywhere near the weight capacity. Now that I’m in line and can’t look over the edge to see how far up I’ve come, I can relax a little. At least I can get my breathing under control.

  “Did you know the Empire State Building is the ninth-tallest building in America?” says a voice coming from a continuous-loop video playing on a screen across from me.

  Oh gosh, I think I might be sick again. Why am I even doing this? Right. For Elena. Elena, who would never get to come to the top of this New York City landmark. Elena, who never got to do so many things. I swear she only made this bucket list so she could mock me from her perch on her heavenly cloud (that’s how I like to picture her, at least). It was pr
obably her plan all along. She was clever like that.

  But a promise is a promise. And I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a promise breaker. Acrophobic, claustrophobic, agoraphobic, yes. Promise breaker, no.

  “Don’t forget the list,” Elena had said to me through haggard breathing, her eyelids closed.

  “I won’t,” I said, giving her hand a little squeeze, sniffling through tears that wanted to come out but that I was trying desperately to keep in. I needed to be strong for her.

  The list was a bunch of things that Elena had always wanted to do but couldn’t. And a bunch of things that I could do but would never choose to. Like bungee jumping. I tried not to think about all that as I sat next to her, her life slipping away.

  “Liza,” she had said, opening her eyes wider than I had seen them in a while.

  “Yes?” I asked, leaning in so I could hear her. She was so quiet, so fragile.

  “Take a chance on . . . chance.”

  Those were her last words to me. Take a chance on chance. I’ve thought of those words during this past year since she’s been gone, and I can’t figure out what she was trying to tell me. Maybe she meant “Take a chance on life,” which makes so much more sense. Since she was dying, it may have just been random words that I probably shouldn’t read into. Or she could have said it on purpose, knowing I’d dwell on it all the rest of my days, trying to figure out her cryptic message. That would be so Elena.

  “So you’re an Empire State Building virgin,” a male voice says behind me, and I jump like a cat that’s just seen a cucumber.

  “Sorry!” Dreamy Brown-eyed Guy says, his hands up, palms out, as I turn around. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”

  My hands go to my chest like my grandmother’s do when I’ve just cursed in front of her. Oh, Liza, is that how a lady talks? she would say. I haven’t dared tell her that, in New York, I’m considered a lightweight in the cussing department.

  “Shoot, I’m really sorry,” Brown-eyed Guy says.

  Shoot? This man is so not from around here.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, and start to turn back around. I really don’t want to chitchat. Although staring into his chocolate eyes does sound appealing. But I think I’ve done enough ogling for one day.

  “Is this your first time in the city?” he asks, clearly not reading my body language. Of course, I was doing a half-not-wanting-to-talk, half-wanting-to-stare-into-his-eyes thing, so who knows what vibe I was giving off.

  “Uh, not my first time, no,” I say, turning back around to face him.

  “But it’s your first time in the Empire State Building.”

  “Yes,” I say, keeping my answers simple. Simple is good.

  “It’s my first time,” he says, his hands moving to the pockets of his shorts as he rocks from ball to heel on his feet. “First time in the city and in this building.”

  I just nod my head, not saying anything. Like an idiot. My hormones, which had started chitchatting as soon as Brown-eyed Guy made a reappearance, sigh with disappointment.

  “Don’t you want to look over the side on this floor before going up?” he asks with a head nod toward the observation deck.

  “Nope.” I shake my head. “I’m thinking I can only survive one look over the edge, so I’m just going to the top. Don’t you want to?”

  Would you look there? I’m actually conversing.

  “I don’t want to ruin the surprise by looking over yet,” he says. “Besides, I can catch it on the way down, right?”

  “Sure,” I say with a dip of my chin. I’ll be happily on the ground by then, and this whole thing will be over.

  In my peripheral vision I see people moving up in the line, so I turn around and take a few steps to catch up. Every step gets me closer—closer to checking off something on Elena’s bucket list. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to complete one. A terrible bucket list fulfiller, that’s what I am. She should’ve asked someone else. Only there wasn’t anyone else to ask. My parents are both scared of everything, like me.

  “So how many times have you been to the city?” Brown-eyed Guy asks from behind me. I guess he’s not giving up on me. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t scared him away yet.

  “I don’t really know,” I say as I spin around to face him. “Quite a few times. I grew up about three hours from here.”

  “Really?” he asks, giving me a once-over as if he doesn’t believe me. Maybe I don’t look like a New York native today, with my cutoff jean shorts, T-shirt, Converse, and the black cross-body bag over my left shoulder. My goal was comfort. Comfortable enough to run away from this building as fast as I could, if I somehow talked myself out of going up. No such luck.

  “Yep,” I say. “Born and raised.”

  “A native New Yorker.” He bobs his head toward me, a small smile perched on his lips. Some of his straight brown hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back with his hand. His hair is dark. Darker than mine . . . darker than Elena’s.

  “So what made you come today if you hate heights so much?” he asks as we move forward in the line, walking next to each other.

  “Just trying something new,” I say simply.

  He looks at me for longer than a few seconds, as if to read between the lines of what I’m saying. Not like he could know any of it, though. The promise, the bucket list, Elena. Unless he’s a mind reader, in which case, I hope he’s enjoying the view. I’m what Elena always called “a special kind of special.”

  “I can respect that,” he finally says.

  “So what brings you here?” I ask, now wanting to keep up the conversation because it’s helping pass the time and also keeping me from thinking of the task at hand (elevator and subsequent looking down from a zillion feet in the sky). He’s also a rather nice view, if I’m being honest.

  “I’m here on a layover on my way to London,” he says. “I only have a day.”

  “Work or play?”

  “Both, actually.”

  “You’re by yourself?”

  “Yep,” he says. “Just me.”

  We move up in the line, closer to the elevators. With the doors in my line of vision, I’m starting to feel my heart rate pick up again, and the room is suddenly fifty degrees warmer. Why did Elena want me to go all the way to the top? If I just stayed on this floor—the eighty-sixth floor—I could’ve looked over the side by now and have been down the elevator and on solid ground. Surely that would count? I’m already in line, though. I might as well just get this over with.

  “I’m Jay,” he says, holding out his hand to shake mine.

  “Liza,” I say, but don’t return the gesture. “My hands are a little sweaty; I’m not sure you want to shake them.”

  His lips pull up into a half smile, his hand still out. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  His hand feels warm in mine, and his grip is strong, with genuine feeling—none of those dead-fish handshakes here. And there go my hormones again. My already-racing pulse picks up a couple of beats.

  “Oh yeah, you’re right. Gross,” he says, taking his hand away from mine, his face contorting into something resembling disgust, and wiping it on his shorts.

  “Sorry!” I say, rubbing both my hands on my cutoffs, feeling utterly repulsive. “I did warn you.”

  “Kidding,” he says, as a smile spreads across his face.

  “Wow, you’re kind of a jerk, aren’t you?” I retort, trying to suppress a smile, unsuccessfully.

  The line moves up and my smile dissipates. We’re getting closer.

  Jay clears his throat, and my eyes dart away from the elevators and back to his face. Yes, I should focus on that face.

  “So did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?” he asks, his face taking on a more serious expression.

  “Huh?” My eyebrows furrow.

  “Great food, no atmosphere.” He gives me a little wink.

  My chin drops. “Wow, that was bad,” I say.

  “Why couldn’t the bicycle stand up by itself?” he continues, unfazed.

  I’ve heard this one before.

  “It was two tired,” he says before I can recall the answer.

  “Oh my gosh, you are not telling me dad jokes.” I glower at him.