Seriously, why on Earth had I asked him if he was following me?
Real subtle, Tessa.
Meanwhile, my phone was still buzzing, reminding me that Ryder Vaughn wasn't the only person I was avoiding.
I sighed. Putting this off sounded good in theory, but I knew myself all too well.
Guilt would gnaw at me all night, leaving me even less prepared tomorrow for whatever Mom might say. Bracing myself, I answered with a forced smile, "Hi Mom."
"Don't 'hi' me," she said, sounding sharper than usual. "I was worried sick."
"Why?"It was a genuine question.My mom had no idea that I'd landed in hot water – much lesswhereI'd landed and why. It's not like either of my parents could help.
She replied, "I stopped by your place."
My breath caught. "Wait, what?"
Bowling right over me, she continued. "And guess what I found on your door."
I didn'twantto guess. For all I knew, that psycho Evan Carver had scrawled obscenities in chicken blood – or rather, paid someone else to scrawl them, because let's face it, he was too persnickety to dirty his own hands.
But this wasn't what had me blinking in surprise. My apartment was in Chicago, but my parents lived in Southwest Michigan – over two hours away. "So you were in Chicago? For what?"
"Toshop," she said as if my question had been ridiculous. "Hello? The Magnificent Mile?"
My fingers flexed around my phone.Seriously?
In my head, I could still see it – shiny storefronts, five-star everything, and rooftop bars packed with people scanning the crowd for faces that mattered.
I used to be one of those people – a scanner, not a scannee, obviously.
Still, I used to walk that mile like I actually belonged – coffee in one hand, confidence in the other. Now, I wasservingcoffee – and not like a pro, either.
On the phone, Mom said, "Surely you've heard of it."
She was being sarcastic. I knew this, because she and I had done our fair share of shopping together along that same stretch, back when I'd had money to spend and the world at my feet.
Now, my wallet was empty, and my feet were aching.
This time, it wasn't from high heels.
No, my feet were aching from a job that had me standing for hours on end. I couldn't even feel sorry for myself. And why? Because back in Chicago, when I'd been strolling and sipping, I hadn't given a single thought to the baristas who prepared my drinks.
Sure, I had always tipped, but it's not like I'd been walking in their shoes – or working with my hands.
At the thought, I looked down to study my own hand, the onenotclutching the phone. It looked perfectly fine. And yet, the pretty pink nail polish taunted me like a relic from the past.
Sure, I'd kept up with the manicures, except now I was doing them myself – mostly to distract from the stupid burns I kept giving my fingers whenever the steam wand gave me trouble.
I was still dwelling on my own incompetence when my mom gave a loud sigh. "Is something wrong with your phone?"
With a little start, I replied, "No. Why?"
"Because you're obviously not hearing me."
My response was automatic. "Yes, I am."
"No, you're not. You haven't replied to a single thing I said. And you still haven't told me why you changed your number."
