“Can I ask why you’re not at school right now?” I keep my tone soft so as not to put her on the defense.
Wiping a tear, she rolls her eyes. “Long story.”
“Well, it just so happens I have a little bit of extra time on my hands,” I say. “I actually just quit my job, so I don’t really have anywhere to be. Except at one thirty—I’m seeing a show. But until then . . .”
I offer a relaxed, gentle smile, studying the tiny quivering thing beside me.
She yanks her crop top down an inch and hunches over, elbows on her knees as she stares at the vintage-style apothecary storefront in front of us.
“I hate it here,” she says. “My school’s full of snobs and preps. I miss my old friends. And everyone in the city acts like they’re constantly having a bad day.” Turning to me, she adds, “I’ve lived here four months, and you’re the first person that’s said hi to me . . . the first person who didn’t look at me like I’m see through.”
I’d been here a year when someone told me people move here because they like to feel invisible. Some people want to blend in and not be seen, and you can do that in a city of millions.
“This place isn’t for the faint of heart. It’ll chew you up and spit you out if you let it,” I say. “Where are you from?”
The girl sighs. “Nowhere you’ve ever heard of.”
“Okay . . . so what brought you here?”
“No offense, but it’s personal.”
I lift my hands. “None taken.”
A quiet moment passes between us before she speaks again. “Why’d you quit your job?”
“Because it didn’t make me happy anymore,” I say. “And my boss was a . . . jerk. He was one of those people—like you said—who act like they’re constantly having a bad day.”
Her lips twist at the side, as if a little slice of validation was all she needed. “How long did you work there?”
“Five years,” I say.
“Where are you going to work now?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
“Aren’t you scared you won’t find another job?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say. “But it’s all about what you focus on. Fear or hope? Meaning or status quo? That kind of thing.”
She wrinkles her nose. “That’s weird.”
Chuckling, I nod. “It is. I know.”
Her phone buzzes on the bench beside her, and without hesitation she silences the call coming through.
“Someone’s looking for you,” I say. “Bet they’re worried.”
She blows a puff of air between her lips as a city bus hums past and comes to a stop at the corner light. Up ahead, a shoulder-to-shoulder sea of pedestrians crosses a busy intersection, headed this way.
“Oh shit.” The girl pops up, slipping her phone in her back pocket. “He found me. I gotta go.”
“Wait.” I rise. “Are you going to be okay? You’re not in any kind of trouble, right?”
Panic colors her baby blues a shade darker as her attention darts toward the crowd. For a split second, I manufacture a mental story about some midwestern teenage runaway being trafficked to New York—because that sort of thing happens more than people realize.
“Scarlett!” a man’s voice booms above the city symphony around us.
Glancing up, I see a dark-haired, clench-jawed Adonis in a three-piece suit stalking ahead of the pack, his familiar blue-green gaze piercing in our direction.
West Maxwell.
“You know him?” I speak out of the corner of my mouth, keeping my voice low.
Scarlett exhales. “Unfortunately.”
“Wait . . .” I stand frozen. But every second that passes only brings West Maxwell that much closer. “How do you know him?”
“That,” she says, her tone salty, “would be my uncle.”
Turning to me, she offers an apologetic half smile before dashing off toward him. Within seconds, he hooks his arm around her shoulders and hails a cab, and the two disappear inside.
Surreal.
Ten minutes later, I’m sipping an iced brown sugar latte and thinking about West Maxwell as an uncle. Which then makes me think of him as someone’s brother, someone’s son. It’s the strangest thing, imagining this larger-than-life asshole as just a regular guy with the same problems and interpersonal relationships as anyone else.
My thoughts wander, some sillier than others . . . What does he do for Christmas? What’s his star sign? Is he a mama’s boy? What’s his favorite movie? What makes him laugh? What kind of birthday presents does he give? Does he have any family traditions?
The idea of West as an everyman is pure comedy.
Everything I’ve ever gleaned about the man suggests he’s as cold as he is heartless, and everyone knows heartless people can’t feel a damn thing.
CHAPTER SIX
WEST
“Don’t be mad.” Scarlett trots toward me.
“Don’t be mad?” I repeat her question through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here when you’re supposed to be in school? And not answering your phone when I call you—have you lost your damn mind?”