Lucky You Read online

  Amberjack Publishing

  1472 E. Iron Eagle Dr.

  Eagle, ID 83616

  http://amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Saba Kapur

  Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cataloguing-in-publication data available upon request.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-944995-93-5

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-944995-94-2

  Cover Design: Stepheny Miller

  For my mother, who said:

  “You better dedicate this one to just me, I don’t want to be grouped in with the rest of the family.”

  One

  Renowned philosopher and poet Jay-Z once stated that he had ninety-nine problems, which, to anyone else, would seem like a hefty amount. But if you ask me, he’s got it pretty good. He’s married to Beyoncé, which basically means he’s won at life, and he’s rich enough to buy a pet dragon if he wanted to. I’m not talking about those tiny lizards, either. I mean the huge Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire kind. So, forgive me, but I don’t really see how his problems could add up to a number so high. Jay-Z has clearly never had to deal with the stress of being the teenage daughter of a Hollywood movie star.

  My name is Gia Winters, and trust me, my life isn’t as great as it seems in the fashion magazines. In April of this year, things got a little sucky. My dad’s ex–best friend decided it would be fun to stalk me for months and then kidnap me at the Golden Globe awards. Everyone needs a hobby, and apparently his was being a full-time lunatic. As it turns out, his revenge plan was sort of idiotic because he was really the one to blame for his own failures in life. You don’t sleep with your agent’s wife and then expect to become the next Brad Pitt. For those of you who are rolling your eyes right now, believe me, I can’t make this stuff up. I still have the emotional and faded physical scars to prove it.

  Five months later, it’s safe to say nothing is as it used to be. I made the choice to leave sunny Los Angeles for the full college experience in New York, which allows me the pleasure of being trampled by eight million people on dirty streets with skyscrapers. No palm trees. No tanned guys on skateboards. It’s all briefcases, trench coats, and cheap hot dogs here. Leaving California wasn’t just hard because I was saying goodbye to my dad, my brother, and all my friends. In fact, leaving my sixteen-year-old brother Mike was actually not an emotional experience at all because he’s a huge pain in the ass. He only cared about my spike in fame when he realized I could potentially set him up with Cindy Crawford’s daughter. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. But finishing something means starting something new, only I wasn’t convinced I was equipped for all the new things being hurled in my direction.

  My therapist, Dr. Adele Norton, was one of these new additions. She was pretty, but in a plain-Jane sort of way. She wore a lot of beige, and she had a painting of a bouquet of flowers hanging in her office that made me feel uncomfortable. Sessions with her were like discussing your intimate secrets with a stranger while you’re waiting to see the dentist.

  “Gia,” she said, taking a seat on the wine-colored armchair opposite mine. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to come back for more sessions this week. I wasn’t sure I’d see you after our last conversation.”

  “You mean when I told you that therapy was a waste of time, and if I had any life problems I’d email Oprah?”

  She gave me a small smile, the kind you give a small child attempting to discuss politics with you. “Yes, that one.”

  I shrugged. “Thought I may as well give it another try. Dad paid you for the whole month.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, I think you made the right choice.”

  I stared at her blankly. She was clearly thinking hard about something as she watched me in concentration. Maybe she was thinking that the money wasn’t worth dealing with my sour attitude. Maybe she was wondering if her hair was wrapped too tightly in that bun on her head. Probably a bit of both, actually.

  “So . . . are we going to discuss my parents’ divorce or something now?” I asked, fiddling with the ends of my long, brown hair.

  “Actually, I think we’ll just talk for a bit.” Dr. Norton placed her notebook down on the table that stood between us. She folded her hands in her lap and gave me another gentle smile. “Are you excited about starting classes this week?”

  “Sure. Should be fun.”

  It was not going to be fun. It’s not like I’d been chilling at home watching sitcoms all day since the little kidnapping incident. I mean, yeah, okay, I had been doing a bit of that, but I’d also been crazy busy with all my life changes. The idea of class and homework being crammed into my schedule seemed almost impossible to manage. I was going to have to compromise a bit.

  “I know a few people who went to NYU,” Dr. Norton said earnestly. “It’s a great school. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

  “Cool.”

  With any luck, she’d keep talking like that until the session ended and save me the trouble of actually participating.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No.”

  Uh, yes. What kind of a stupid question was that? I dug my nails into my palms so that she couldn’t see I had been biting them all morning. There goes that two-hour manicure I sat through just last weekend.

  “College is very different than high school,” Dr. Norton went on. “And you’ve only been in New York for a month. It’s perfectly normal to be overwhelmed.”

  “Yeah, well,” I began with a forced smile, “there’s nothing really normal about me, now is there?”

  Dr. Norton was silent for a few long moments, clearly thinking about her bun again. Probably. “Well,” she finally said. “Not every college freshman has the same responsibilities as you do.”

  It was clear Dr. Norton was struggling to find a polite way to say “Not all eighteen-year-olds miss the first week of college because they were attending the most exclusive New York Fashion Week events.” But, sure. Let’s go with “responsibilities.”

  “Those are the perks of being Harry Winters’s daughter,” I told her.

  Dr. Norton leaned over and picked up the notebook. Playtime was over. Time for business. She uncapped her pen, and I felt the dread build up inside me.

  “How have you been sleeping lately, Gia? Have these past few days been any better?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “A little, I guess.”

  “Still having nightmares? You mentioned you had quite a few last week.”

  And that was the last time I was ever going to tell her about them. I think one session was plenty for her reminders about “dealing with unresolved fear and trauma.”

  “I wouldn’t call them nightmares,” I mumbled. “I mean, yesterday I dreamt that I got married to Zac Efron, so that’s good, right?”

  Dr. Norton gave a quiet laugh. “Yes, I would say that’s a good dream.”

  I conveniently left out the part where Zac Efron morphed into a faceless figure who shot me, and I got blood all over my Vera Wang wedding dress just before I said my vows. We never even got to the wedding cake or the moment where he serenades me with songs from High School Musical. But there was no need to make a big deal out of the little things.

  “It’s okay if y
ou’re still having trouble,” she said. “This isn’t always a quick process. Sometimes it takes time.”

  “It’s been five months! I think my brain has had enough time to move on.”

  “Honestly,” Dr. Norton said. “I don’t think you’ve given it a proper chance to. You’ve certainly kept yourself busy enough that you don’t really have time to cope with what happened to you. Do you think that’s fair to say?”

  I don’t know, lady, I came to you for the answers. I shifted uncomfortably on the plush armchair. It’s not like I hadn’t thought about that. I mean, I didn’t have full-on PTSD, but something was definitely off. It didn’t help that the past few months had been devoted to publicity events and cramming my entire wardrobe into boxes. All the chaos and changes had uprooted whatever emotional stability I had left after the incident. I figured that pretending the problem didn’t exist could potentially make it disappear.

  I sighed. “Maybe. I guess. You’re the expert; you tell me.”

  “It’s important that you recognize where the problem is, so you can take steps to resolve it. I can tell you what you want to hear, but that won’t solve anything. Ultimately, only you can overcome the anxiety you’re feeling. Only then will the nightmares start to go away.”

  Other famous people had to deal with actual problems, like grand-scale custody battles or intense therapy after smashing their guitars on stage or something. And then there was me, considering sleeping with a night-light like I was a toddler.

  “Gia,” Dr. Norton continued softly. “I know it can be hard to open up to someone you hardly know. But this is a safe space; there’s no judgment. I’m only here to help. But I can’t do that if you don’t have any faith in me. I’m asking you to trust me. Can you do that?”

  I couldn’t even meet her eyes. Her voice wasn’t soothing or calming, it was patronizing. She said she wasn’t going to judge me, but how could she not? Celebrities practically exist for the entertainment and judgment of others. Why should I be any different? I picked up my Roberto Cavalli bag, hiked it onto my shoulder, and rose from my armchair.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her. “Thanks, Doc.”

  She looked down at her watch. “Our sessions are half an hour. You’ve still got half your time left!”

  “You’re still getting the full fee from Dad, right?”

  Dr. Norton blinked at me. “That’s not really the point.”

  “So that’s a yes,” I said, heading for the door. “Great. Everybody wins! See you Thursday.”

  “Actually . . .” Dr. Norton stood up, smoothing out the creases in her black pants. “I think we need more than one session a week to address your issues effectively. I’d like to schedule our next session for Wednesday, if that works for you.”

  I turned the door handle and pushed it open. “Sorry,” I said. “Busy that day.”

  “Gi—”

  “Well, have a great day! Enjoy!”

  I practically bolted down the hallway and past the receptionist as if I were being chased by a pack of rabid dogs. Therapy was a joke. I didn’t need some middle-aged stranger in an armchair telling me I needed to solve my life issues. You want a problem to solve? Repaint your damn office. Taupe is never the answer.

  I rode the elevator impatiently, hastily texting my driver, George, to bring the car around as soon as possible. I doubted Dr. Norton would follow me downstairs and drag me back to her office, but I was taking no chances. Luckily, George was already waiting for me when I stepped outside, opening the car door.

  “Drive,” I told him as I slid into the black town car. “And hurry.”

  In hindsight, that was a pretty unreasonable request for George, who had one too many wrinkles to hurry. It wasn’t until he pulled away from the curb and into the traffic that I started breathing again. Goodbye Dr. Norton, and goodbye stupid beige blouse.

  “The session finish early today, Miss Winters?” George called out from the front seat.

  “Something like that.”

  The message-bank on my phone showed one new voice mail. I put the phone to my ear. “Hi!” came the voice through the receiver. “Okay, so don’t hate me. But I have to cancel for tonight. I know I’ve been doing this a lot lately, but one of the guys misplaced some of the paperwork, and the captain’s really cracking down on us today. I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I swear. Anyway, good luck for your first day of classes! Don’t be nervous, you got this. I’ll call you when I can.”

  The line went dead, and I dropped the phone back into my lap in disappointment. That was the only downside to having a boyfriend who was a police officer. You could never have long, romantic phone conversations, and he was always filling out paperwork. On the plus side, he looked super sexy in his NYPD uniform, and it was good to know that he had the ability to arrest people if they annoyed me. Even though he kept reminding me that I couldn’t just have annoying people arrested, and apparently “that’s not how the legal system works.” But whatever. If it came down to it, he could probably fake a crime scene, and that was a useful skill to have.

  Milo Fells was still a cadet when I met him, assisting on my stalking case back in April. Our first encounter had involved me gaping at his tousled brown hair and dimples while trying to control the urge to pass out. The next few interactions were about the same. Him smiling and being adorable. Me almost hyperventilating and mentally naming our future children. By some miracle of God, Milo decided my puns were hilarious enough that he wanted to actually be my boyfriend, which was great decision-making on his part. My puns really are hilarious.

  Before Milo moved to join the NYPD, we were hanging in limbo. It was hard starting off something with so much distance in between, and a few frozen yogurts dates and stolen kisses barely counted as a relationship. But we finally decided that if we were going to do this, we were going to do this right. At first, I was a little scared that he’d run into Olivia Palermo while I was back in LA and decide I wasn’t worth the effort. But my best friends, Aria and Veronica, were kind enough to remind me that Olivia Palermo’s husband is a superbabe, so she was probably not going to be leaving him anytime soon. Still, a girl can never be too sure.

  I stared out the tinted window impatiently. LA traffic had been bad, but this was unbearable. We were practically stationary.

  “How far away are we?” I asked George.

  “Hard to say, Miss,” he replied. “NYU is only a ten-minute drive, but I’d say double that time with this traffic.”

  I checked the time. 11:26 a.m. Class was at noon, but this had been the only available time slot for therapy that day. As Dad liked to constantly remind me, Dr. Norton was very high in demand and was basically the “Justin Bieber of therapy.” Honestly, I think he was just trying to form an argument in what he assumes is the language of the youth, because he actually said the word “yo” a couple of times during that discussion. That man was hopeless. Either way, he deemed Dr. Norton worthy enough of showing up late to school for, which is a huge deal if you know anything about my father. I would have happily avoided class altogether if I had a better alternative. But right now, even class seemed more appealing than suffocating in her office.

  George blared the car horn at a pedestrian darting across the road, slamming his foot on the brake and stopping the car with a jolt. I was thrust forward in my seat. I put a hand over my heart, which was drilling into my rib cage from the adrenaline of almost flattening a man with our tires.

  George turned to check on me with a small smile. He shook his head and gave a friendly laugh. “Welcome to New York, Miss Winters.”

  Two

  Right away, it was abundantly clear how out of place I was going to feel at New York University.

  Dr. Norton had mentioned that college was nothing like high school, and that adjusting was a challenge for lots of people, not just me. I tried to keep those reassuring words in mind as I scanned my surroundings. There were people scattered on the sidewalks as far as t
he eye could see. Everyone else had already settled into their schedules the week before, but you could still feel nervous excitement in the air. It wasn’t hard to tell by the lost looks on many faces that I was definitely not the only person overwhelmed. I was, however, the only person wearing studded Valentino stilettos with my ripped skinny jeans.

  Well, Gia, no time like the present. I took a deep breath, pulled up the campus map on my phone and began walking. Why in the heck was Washington Square Park located right next to the college? Nobody just builds a college around a park in LA. I was already having a hard enough time dealing with the street numbers and names. I didn’t need extra greenery to confuse me.

  “Hi,” I said, stopping a girl passing me.

  She pulled out her headphones with annoyance. “Yeah?”

  “Yes, hi. Sorry. I was just looking for the fountain? I’m supposed to meet someone there.”

  The girl looked me up and down. “Are you a student at NYU?”

  I looked almost apologetic. “Um, yeah.”

  She raised an eyebrow, a little piercing rising with it. “Keep walking left, you’ll see it in about a minute.”

  “Oh, great. Thanks!”

  She didn’t return my cheeriness. Instead she gave me another once-over, pushed her earphones back into her ears, and walked away. Well, alrighty then. Fall in New York was a little chilly, but it was nothing compared to the icy attitudes of the locals.

  I did as she said and continued toward the fountain, trying not to look as completely helpless as I felt. Luckily she was right. After only a minute or so, the huge fountain came into view with people chatting all around it. Great. This was a fantastic place to meet someone I had never laid eyes on before. There were only about fifty people here. Should be no problem. I blew out a sigh, scanning my surroundings. It was two minutes to noon. I was going to be late for sure.

  “Gia?” A pretty blonde girl appeared in front of me with a perky smile.

  “Yeah?”