Chapter 62 Your Anxiety?

• Rosie paced.
• Not gracefully. Not with any kind of purpose, really. Just the anxious kind—the kind that scrapes heels on expensive floors and frays the edges of nerves already worn thin. The heels, by the way, weren’t even hers. Cream leather. Stupidly high. Probably costs more than her sister's old Honda.
• Each step landed with a sharp click, rapid-fire against the marble—like a metronome that had lost its mind.