The Dirty Truth

Arms crossed, she still refuses to look at me, but as promised, I give her a little grace and let it go.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world to have someone who cares about you,” I say, soft and gentle. “Everyone needs at least one of those.”

Her attention fixes on a crack in the pavement.

“You have your uncle West,” I add, “and I have Mona Napier. Two sides of the exact same coin. Believe me, I’m no stranger to having every second of your day micromanaged.”

Scarlett sniffs.

“We’re going to have fun this summer.” I lighten my tone. “I promise.”

“Fine.” She relents a little, her posture less rigid as we trudge ahead. “So who are the good designers?”

With pep in my step, I tell her all about the classics—Halston, Pucci, Chanel, and Dior—as well as how to spot fakes from a mile away. By the time we’re looking around at the flea market, our morning rough patch has been honed to a polished-marble finish, and my sullen teenage charge is wearing a proud smile as she showcases a colorful Pucci pocket square.

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure Uncle West will never wear this,” she says before cracking a devilish grin. “I’m totally going to make him wear this to work next week.”

“Just make sure you take a picture since I won’t be there to see him.”

“For sure.”

We head to the checkout, where an iPad-wielding woman in a seventies-era sundress swipes my card for the thirty-dollar pocket square, and we’re on our way.

“What next?” she asks, waving the vibrant fabric like a makeshift flag.

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t have a whole day planned . . . thought we’d head back to your place, but we can stop for lunch at this new café I keep hearing about. I’ve been dying to try it. Supposedly they have this—”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I get it. I wouldn’t want to spend an entire weekend with me either.”

“Scarlett.” I nudge her arm. “Stop. You can’t guilt-trip the inventor of guilt trips. I was practically the queen of guilt trips when I was your age. As a result, they no longer work on me because I see through each and every one. Anyway, we’ve got an entire summer to fill. No need to rush it.”

“Fine.” We cross an intersection, and she strides ahead a few steps, forcing distance between us. And I think I get it now—she pushes people away because she’s testing them.

She runs away because she wants West to find her to prove he cares.

And now she’s doing the same thing to me, albeit on a lesser scale.

“Scarlett, wait up.” I jog ahead to catch up, and once there, I give her a little bit of grace yet again and let it go. “So I was thinking, maybe this week we could check out that new Sabrina Carpenter movie? Maybe a matinee after school on Monday?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“When you get home, why don’t you make a list of all the things you want to do this summer? Like an NYC bucket list. And I’ll do everything I can to help you clear it.”

“I want to go home,” she says without hesitation. “To Whitebridge. For a week. That’s all I really want to do. And every time I ask Uncle West, he says, ‘Never.’ He doesn’t even say no—it’s always never. But maybe if you go with me?”

Scarlett turns to me with hope-laced baby blues.

“School’s out in two weeks,” she says. “We could go right after that.”

“My sister’s getting married end of June, and I’m going out there the week before,” I say. “I could squeeze in a trip to Nebraska before that . . . but one thing at a time. We’re still in the trust-building phase. Your uncle has to trust me with you, and he has to trust that you’re not going to do anything crazy again—like run off to Penn Station at three a.m.”

I give her a wink, but I mean business.

“You do your part; I’ll do mine. Deal?” I extend my hand, and she looks at me like I’m crazy. “Deal?”

After a quick bout of hesitation, she finally slides her hand into mine. “Deal.”

Nebraska, here we come.

Maybe . . .

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WEST

“Back already?” I ask Scarlett as she appears in the doorway of my study shortly after noon on Saturday long enough to give a quick wave and dash away. Rising, I follow. “Where’s Elle?”

Turning back, she offers a shrug. “She had other stuff to do; I don’t know. I’m not her keeper.”

“Did you get anything at the farmers’ market?”

“Flea market,” she corrects me before digging into her left pocket and displaying a crumpled square embossed with some psychedelic pattern. “This is for you. It’s Gucci or Pucci or something. I don’t know. Elle says it’s cool, and we both think you should wear it to work next week.”