“But—“
“I know you don’t trust the system. I know it hasn’t done you any favors in the past. But you said you trust me. So trust me enough to do this the right way. Trust me when I tell you I’m not going to screw you over.”
I suck in a deep breath, trying not to succumb to the panic clawing at me. It’s the same sense of urgency I felt the morning of graduation, when I realized my parents’ lives were at stake. I’d hopped in my truck without a second thought to my own safety. Without considering anything but getting to them as soon as humanly possible. I thought I could do it all myself. And I paid a high price for that arrogance.
It’s a mistake I have no intention of repeating. Still, my anxiety that something will go wrong — that I’ll unintentionally put Jo’s life in danger again — makes my heart thunder twice its normal speed.
“Thank you, Chris.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” His lips tug up in a wry smile as he looks beyond me, to the parking lot. I follow his gaze, watching in horror as a horde of children descend upon the field from a fleet of SUVs and minivans. “Thank me after we survive our first practice.”
“Christ,” I mutter, following him toward the dugouts. Three nervous mothers are already gathered there, waiting to talk to us about allergies and emergency contact numbers and all manner of things I’m not remotely prepared to respond to with any sort of eloquence. I paste a smile on my face and pray it doesn’t look as stiff as it feels.
Three hours later, the first session of tee-ball camp is finally over. The last child in our care has been passed off to their nanny. I’m covered in dust. My pitching hand is practically convulsing. My voice is hoarse from yelling out instructions. My ears are ringing from the nonstop chatter of first-graders. And I can’t wipe the stupid smile off my face.
There’s a lightness in my soul I haven’t felt in ages. Maybe it was the kids — that boundless energy, that infectious enthusiasm, those high-pitched giggles. The way their faces lit up when they managed to hit the ball off the tee. (Except for little Lennie, who definitely needs a pair of prescription glasses.) Maybe it was simply being back on the mound with a mitt on my hand, doing something I used to love with every fiber of my being. Whatever the case, I haven’t had such a good morning in a year.
Chris offered to drop me off at home, but I told him I was happy to walk. That was twenty minutes ago, when the sun was shining brightly overhead and the sky had all the makings of a perfect July afternoon. Now, as fat raindrops begin to plummet the pavement around me from a fast-moving cloud front, I’m regretting my desire for fresh air.
I pick up my pace from a walk to a jog. I’m not far from my apartment — three blocks, at most. But by the time I round the corner onto my street, I’m soaked to the skin. My white t-shirt is plastered against my chest, my jeans and sneakers are squelching with each stride. I’m so intent on reaching the triple-decker at the end of the row, I don’t even notice the green sports car parked in front, rain pattering violently at the ragtop roof. Not until I’m practically on top of it.
The vintage 1965 Porsche Cabriolet would stand out on any street in America. It’s a gorgeous bit of craftsmanship. It looks especially out of place in my low-rent neighborhood, wedged between a beat-up sedan and a rust-flecked pickup truck.
My stomach plummets to the cracked asphalt beneath me. My feet slam to a halt in a puddle. Cold water splashes against my legs. I barely feel it. There’s no time to recover my composure or catch my breath. All I can do is stand there like a statue, watching as the driver’s side door flies open and a girl steps out, into the rain. Her blonde hair is already damp in the time it takes her to round the hood and step into my path. Her light blue sundress is turning navy as it absorbs the downpour, drop by drop.
I swallow hard. She’s so close, it’s painful. Only inches away. I stare down into her upturned face, mesmerized by the droplets clinging to her eyelashes each time she blinks. Her lips are pursed tightly, signs of strain apparent in every plane of her expression as she attempts to keep her emotions in check. Her voice betrays her, though — it’s shaking, every syllable oversaturated by the depth of her feelings.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask softly. I’m scared if I speak too loudly, she’ll bolt like a spooked horse.
“I had to come. I had to see you.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” Her throat contracts, the muscles working visibly beneath her skin. “Our conversation wasn’t finished.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“There are parts of this story you might not want to hear, Jo. Things that…” I shake my head. Can I tell her about her parents’ true nature? Can I shatter whatever illusions she still harbors about her loving family? “It could do more damage than good.”
“How can you say that? The truth is always better than a lie. Even if it hurts.”
“Spoken like someone who hasn’t yet been hurt.”
Her eyes flash. “I’ve been hurt plenty. Trust me.”
“I know.” I try to keep my voice even; it’s a struggle. “Maybe that’s why I’m so hesitant to do it again.”
“You never change, do you? God, Archer! How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not some little girl who needs to be shielded from the horrors of life. You can’t protect me from everything!”
“Not from everything,” I agree.
But I can protect you from this.
“Did you mean what you said the other day?” she asks suddenly. “Or was that just another lie?”
“Which part?”
“That I…” She presses her eyes closed, unable to hold my gaze as she says it. “That I was your dream, too”
I inhale sharply. It takes a moment to find my voice. “Even if I did… Does it matter anymore?”
Her eyes snap open. “Of course it matters!”
“Does your boyfriend know you’re here, Jo?”
She pales slightly, rocking back on her heels like the question packs a physical punch. “I don’t want to talk about him right now. I want to talk about us. You and me.”
“There is no you and me. There’s just two people who used to be friends, spinning in useless circles because neither of them is smart enough to let go.”
“Is that really what you believe?” Her eyes fill with tears, red-rimmed and glossy. “Or are you just saying that to push me away?”
“I don’t need to push you, Jo. You’re already gone. You just haven’t admitted that to yourself yet.”
“I’m not gone! I’m standing right here!”
“For how long?” I ask lowly. “How long until you get on your private jet with that perfect Ken Doll and fly back to your new life?”
Her mouth snaps closed with an audible click. “I… I don’t know.”
“How long until your parents tug on your leash and yank you back to Switzerland?”
“You have no right to say that to me!”
“You’re right — it’s not a leash. It’s more like a pair of shackles.” I scoff, bitterness rising into the back of my throat like bile. “Blair and Vincent must be so pleased to have their precious daughter by their sides, right where they’ve always wanted her. No more silly dreams of art or design, no more charcoal-smeared fingertips or hours wasted sketching. Certainly no more playing with the poor boy in the servants’ cottage. You’re their perfect little doll! And, as an added bonus, now you’ve got the perfect, parent-approved boyfriend accessory!”