Total pages in book: 10
Estimated words: 9538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 48(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 32(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 9538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 48(@200wpm)___ 38(@250wpm)___ 32(@300wpm)
I fake a smile. “Of course,” I say, swallowing down a spoonful of disgust.
“You’re such a darling,” he says.
I flash a bigger smile. “Thanks.”
Then, he disappears up the stairs. Naturally. He must go beautify himself before the lady shows up.
She’ll probably be here in less than ten minutes. Like I am going to stay in my room for the next several hours. I’m not even going to stay in this house.
There’s a big city out there for me to escape into.
I grab my backpack from the dining room floor, stuff my laptop in it, and sling it over my shoulder. Maybe when I reach Big Cup, I’ll tell Dad I left.
But then again, maybe I won’t. Chances are he won’t notice or care.
When I stuff my phone into the pouch of my backpack, the sound of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 blasts from Dad’s phone on the coffee table in the living room.
It’s his fiancée calling. Joan’s in Vermont teaching a symposium on classical music. Poor Joan. I like her well enough, considering I’ve only lived with her for the last two summer breaks.
His cell rattles again, the violin announcing her interest in talking to her fiancé. Not my problem. Not my problem. Not at all my problem.
I ignore it as I pad quietly to the door. It opens into an outside alcove. My bike’s in there. I’m almost free from alibi duty.
Footsteps shuffle upstairs. “Harlow, love,” he calls out.
I tense.
Don’t do it. Don’t ask.
“Can you grab Joan’s call and tell her I’m in a meeting with Bridger?”
And he’s asked.
I burn, but I say nothing as I reach for the knob, stuffing in my earbuds. Useful prop. But soon, I’ll need Sondheim, Larsen or Miranda to cleanse my ears.
For now, the violin becomes more urgent. So does my need to go. I turn the knob.
The sound of footsteps grows louder. “Harlow, can you answer that, please?”
Flames lick higher in me as I weigh my options. Pretend I didn’t hear? Just leave? Or something else. Like, hey, how about a no?
I hardly even live here anymore. I did enough of this in high school. Why do I have to do it during college breaks too?
“Harlow,” he calls once more from the top of the stairs, standing by the banister now.
The violin insists.
He shouts my name. Too loud to ignore. Hand on the knob, I carelessly turn my gaze to him, adopting a confused look as I point to my earbuds. After I take one out, I ask, “What did you say?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Joan was calling. She’ll call again. I’ll just handle it,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.
“How noble of you,” I mutter, too low for him to hear.
He peers at me curiously, cataloging my backpack, my fleece. “Are you leaving?”
Genius.
“Layla called. I’m meeting her at the coffee shop. Good luck with your Bridger meeting,” I say, sketching air quotes. I leave before he can say another word.
He can deal with his affairs on his own. I’m not his alibi anymore.
I open the door, step into the alcove. There, I tug on my helmet, then grab my silver bike, hoisting it by my shoulder. I leave the brownstone, rushing down the steps, fueled by righteous fire and rage.
He can screw his lady friend without any help from me. It’s not like he has me around in the fall or the spring. He can’t use me during the summer.
Slapping the bike down, I hop on in a flurry. I jump off the sidewalk and right onto Eighty Third Street, then race west on the smooth concrete.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll catch one more glimpse of Bridger in the six o’clock sunset as I ride down Fifth Avenue. He’ll be walking. He usually walks.
He’s only a few minutes ahead of me.
I bolt south on the avenue, sandwiching my body and the bike between the parked cars and the cabs, the trucks and buses screeching downtown. Fast and furious, I want speed and distance. Far away from my dad and his habits. His women showing up at all hours. Him asking me to disappear.
Here I am, disappearing into the New York night.
It’s just me and the lights and the sounds and the streets of the city as I dodge the bullets the traffic throws at me. I weave past a car turning into Central Park, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of purple.
My heart surges. Bridger’s a block away. I pedal faster, darting past the cars to my left.
Maybe I’ll just hop over to the sidewalk, roll up beside him and say hi.
There’s a cab twenty feet ahead, pulling over to the curb.
Once I jam past it, I’ll—
But my phone rings. It’s Joan. Someone swings a cab door open five feet in front of me. The wrong side—the traffic side, not the curb side.