The Dirty Truth

“Hey, Mom. Sorry to cut this short, but I’m meeting up with someone,” I say when she begins to ramble on about Elijah’s muscles for the second time. If she likes him so much, maybe she should marry him? Not that my father would be cool with that, but the way she’s fawning over Elijah, it seems Dad might have a little competition. “I’ll call you later, okay? And I’ll text you that itinerary right now.”

“Okay, but don’t forget, sweetheart.”

“Doing it right now.” I end the call and flick through my email in warp speed until I find the flight confirmation and forward it off. “Hey, Scarlett.” Tucking my phone away, I slide my hands into my back jeans pockets. “You all rested up?”

Her pale-blue eyes are a little brighter in the morning sun, and her hair is shower damp and pulled back. Without giving myself too much credit, I think it’s safe to say she’s somewhat excited to hang out with me today, which means I didn’t completely bomb it with the Tenement Museum fiasco.

Scarlett gives me a thumbs-up before tucking her phone into her bra.

Gazing past my shoulder, she says, “Hey, Uncle West.”

From the corner of my eye, I see a glistening, shirtless Greek god of a man trot in our direction before settling to my right.

Only slightly winded, he pulls a white earbud from his left ear before stretching a muscled arm overhead—a move that only serves to accentuate his chiseled torso and picture-perfect Adonis belt (no Photoshop necessary).

“Hey,” I say, keeping as cool as I can despite the air around us suddenly growing ten degrees hotter. “I didn’t take you for a Central Park–jogger type. Figured you were one of those private-home-gym guys.”

“He is,” Scarlett says under her breath. “He’s totally a private-home-gym guy. What’s with this?”

“A man can’t get some fresh air without coming home to the Spanish Inquisition?” He adjusts the black sweatband currently pushing his thick, dark hair off his forehead. “Where are you two headed?”

I nudge Scarlett. “Thought we’d hit up this designer flea market in SoHo. I promised my roommate I’d find her a vintage Hermès scarf.”

“Whatever that is,” Scarlett says.

“Oh, honey. If you’re going to be a New Yorker, you have to know your designers.” I snake my arm around her and manage to wrangle a smile out of her. “You want to join, West?”

“As enthralling as an Hermès hunt sounds, I’ll pass,” he says. “But thank you.”

“He has people who shop for him,” Scarlett says, head tilted. “Unlike us peasants.”

West gives her a playful punch on the shoulder before retrieving a key fob from a zippered pocket in his shorts and heading inside. It takes all the strength I have not to picture him in the shower.

“Did you have breakfast yet?” I ask Scarlett as we head off.

“I don’t really eat breakfast.”

“What? Why?”

She lifts a shoulder. “My mom never really made it, and we never had a lot of food in the house, so I got used to skipping it. I don’t get hungry until about noon.”

West’s words from last week play in my ear—without giving away too much, he implied that her mom was less than amazing. I imagine things had to have been pretty horrid for him to end up with sole custody.

“So what was life like back in Nebraska?” I ask. “Tell me about the good stuff, the stuff you miss.”

“It was amazing.”

“Really? How so?”

“My mom was never home, so I kind of got to do whatever I wanted.” She speaks of it with a braggadocio lilt in her voice, as if it’s the kind of thing that might impress someone. “My mom’s not strict at all—unlike Uncle West. She trusts me.”

That or she doesn’t care . . .

“I could hang out with my friends all the time,” she continues. “Seven days a week. Anytime I wanted.”

“Where was your mom?”

Her lips twist at one side. “Sometimes working. Sometimes hanging out with her friends.”

“What did you do if you needed to get ahold of her?”

Scarlett doesn’t answer me right away, taking a moment before exhaling a short breath.

“You literally sound like the people who took me away from her. You’re asking the exact same questions,” she says.

Shoot.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.” I bite my lip and search for the right words. “I’m just trying to understand where you came from so I can help you figure out where you’re going.”

“And now you sound like the therapist Uncle West sent me to when I first got here.” Her dirty Converse sneakers scuff along the sidewalk.

If I can’t catch a break with this child, I can only assume West has it a hundred times worse.

“Scarlett.” I stop and place my hand on her shoulder. “I’m not a therapist or a DHS worker. I’m just a thirty-year-old staff writer that your uncle—for some insane reason—thinks will be a good influence for you this summer. Please know that I’m on your side. I’m here for you and because of you. I can’t make you trust me, but I can show you that I’m worth your trust. Just give me a little grace, and I’ll do the same with you, okay?”