Chapter 4
HEATH
Happy hour is over.
I close the deep mahogany doors behind me, clenching my coat collar against the frigid cold.
The time on my watch says “I need a drink.”
As far as days and minutes ago, I’m already on Scotch-o’clock and by the time I head towards Le Petite Pony after spending all night and most of the day with my sister, I feel somewhat normal.
If normal means being-able-to-put-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-while-fighting-the-urge-to-f*****g-run.
Because that’s all my mind has been able to do since I landed back in New York. Run.
No one said coming back home would be easy…
But what I didn’t expect was that my face would be flashed on every TV screen from coast to coast, that my frown would be splayed across newspapers from here to Beirut, as social media users
