“Ramona?” Dylan asked softly.
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said. Coughed. “Um, listen, there are…well, a lot of photographers outside my door.”
“What?”
“And I need to get to the café.”
“Holy shit. I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s fine. I just…I think I need to cut out the back maybe?”
“Goddammit. Fucking vultures. Hold on. Don’t move. I’m on my way over.”
“Dylan, no, that’ll just make it—”
But Dylan ended the call, and Ramona couldn’t help the fresh wave of tears that spilled down her cheeks.
Chapter
Sixteen
Dylan was somad, she was seeing stars.
Red stars.
Red stars exploding, shrapnel flying, landing on every single one of those miscreants standing outside of Ramona’s door.
Breathe.
She needed to breathe.
If she didn’t breathe, she’d never find her way out of the woods she was currently traipsing through, heading in the vague direction of Birch Street and Ramona’s house. She wasn’t sure the exact number, but she wasn’t planning on going in through the front door either.
She spilled out onto Sterling, then checked her Maps app and kept heading east. She had to cut through some backyards, but this was preferable to the main road. At least it was until a very large, very unleashed dog in a very unfenced backyard spotted her, its barks like a security alarm.
“Hey, good dog,” she said, slowing her quick steps, but the beast kept barking. She loved dogs, but small ones. Yippy ones, as Laurel called them, and this dog was huge and booming, with big sharp teeth and drool dripping down onto the grass.
“It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “I’m just cutting through. Just a little short—”
The dog lunged then, snapping its jaw at her flowy T-shirt and getting a piece of the hem. It yanked, jerking her forward, and Dylan heard her shirt rip. She lunged back, and her shirt tore even more, but at this point, she just wanted to survive this little encounter with Cujo. She let the dog have the chunk of cotton and took off running, angling around hydrangeas just starting to bloom and thorny rosebushes. She didn’t slow down until she spilled onto Birch, her lungs desperate for air.
She was not a runner.
She fucking hated exercise, actually, but speed walked on a treadmill in her house while reading scripts or watching mindless TV. That bit of cardio, however, did not prepare her for escaping territorial canines in New Hampshire. She rested her palms on her knees, catching her breath. Down the street, she spotted a crowd outside a little brick bungalow, her anger flaring again. She swung right, ducking into more backyards until she landed on Ramona’s back porch, which was cute and filled with potted plants and flowers.
She knocked on the door, and Ramona flung it open before she’d even let down her arm.
“My god, what happened to you?” Ramona asked.
Dylan frowned, but then looked down at herself—shirt torn, cuffed jeans dusted with dirt, white sneakers filthy.
“I ran here,” she said, still huffing for breath. “And escaped death by dog.”
“And trees,” Ramona said, plucking a twig out of her hair.
Dylan laughed, but then went sober when she remembered why she was here. “I’m so sorry.”
Ramona sighed, and she stood aside to let Dylan in the house. “It’s not your fault.”
