I wad up the dye-stained towel and shove it into the bathroom trash can, opening the door just as her fist is raised to pound again.
Her mouth drops open in disbelief. “Why is your hair wet?” she asks. “Anddark?”
“No reason,” I answer and try to sidle past her.
She glares at me, moving to stand in my path. “You need to leave.” Behind her, a security guard hovers with his hands on his hips like a human barricade.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I say defiantly. “I only finished my wine a few minutes ago.”
Her eyes narrow. She crosses her arms. “You think you’re the first prostitute we’ve had in here? You a meth head?” She takes in my shirt and jeans, my booted foot. “Don’t deny it,” she barks at me. “James saw you.”
The bartender must have noticed my poor attempts to be friendly with the other diners. The only thing I want to proposition someone for is a ride, maybe an egg. I limp around her, jerking my arm away as she tries to grab me. “There’s no need for this,” I tell them. “I’m going.”
She follows me into the lobby, where the security guard leans over the counter and grabs a phone.
“What’s he doing?” I ask, clutching my backpack to my chest.
“He’s calling the police,” she snaps.
I round on her, needing to calm her down, deescalate. “No, don’t do that. Please. You don’t understand. No police.”
Her mouth turns down at the corners, and I realize I onlysound more guilty. “Don’t loiter in the parking lot either,” she says. “We can see you on the cameras.”
My whole body goes cold. Desperate to leave, I limp rapidly toward the doors, floor slick under my walking boot, the jaunty beat of my stride impossible to overcome. Behind me, I hear the security guard call out as he hangs up the phone. Panicked, I slam into a mother with a preschooler in one hand and a suitcase in the other. “Sorry,” I apologize, stooping to pick up the book I caused her to drop, annoyed that I let it slow me down.
This penchant for dutiful niceness is what landed me with someone like Henry in the first place, that made it possible for him to creep over me like an invasive vine until I was buried, submerged in his will. If I were the kind of woman to flip the desk girl off or kick the woman’s book aside, I doubt Henry would have even tried. Even my mother, for all her interest in blending in, knew when to let others stew in their own juices. But I am forever trying to get gold stars, to be the good little girl it is impossible for me to be.
Outside, the parking lot is dotted with cars. I start across it, hoping to get clear of the hotel before the cops show up. The faint wail of sirens sounds a few blocks away, causing my heart to skip several beats. Even if I make it to the sidewalk, the police will be looking for a woman with this T-shirt and hair color and eye color, a giant boot on her foot. I’m in jeopardy wherever I go in this city, a walking billboard for anyone to read.
An older gentleman in a business suit is stuffing a leather and herringbone suitcase into his trunk. I shuffle up behind him and tap his shoulder, flashing my most nonthreatening smile. “Can I ask where you’re headed?”
He hesitates, taking in my faded shirt—the neck rimmed in Cinnamon Kiss—and canvas backpack.
“I thought if we were headed the same direction, maybe you could use the company?” I try to sound nonchalant, but my voice hitches as the sirens approach.
He emits a small noise. He doesn’t look scared, just surprised.People don’t do these things anymore, I realize. They don’t ask strangers for rides. There’s an app for that.
The receptionist from the lobby barrels through the hotel doors with her pet security guard, waving her arms at me angrily. “Never mind,” I say quickly to the man, ducking between his car and the next.
He leans toward me and takes a deep breath. His eyes shift to the shouting receptionist.
I back away, pointing to my boot. “It hurts to stand, is all. I didn’t want to wait.” Tears gather behind my eyes as I turn to limp away.
He exhales behind me. “I’m going to DC. I can take you as far as that.”
I turn back. “Are you sure?”
His eyes travel from my chest to my face. He clears his throat. “I’m Don. You in some kind of trouble?”
The blare of sirens is bearing down on us, and the security guard is stalking in our direction. “I need to get out of the city,” I admit. “Now.”
“Get in,” he says, unlocking the doors of his Toyota Avalon with the key fob. He climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, backing out hurriedly after I close the door, before the security guard can stop us.
As we pull out of the lot, we pass a police car pulling in. I duck, pretending to dig through my backpack. When I sit back up, I let out a sigh of relief. We are zipping down the boulevard, the beaming rectangle of the hotel shrinking behind us. My fake ID isn’t meant to hold up against law enforcement or background checks. I have no social security number to go with this new name. No birth certificate.
Don leans toward me, and I smell the bourbon on his breath. He sniffs my hair and his lashless eyelids flutter. “I’m Don,” he says.
“You told me that already,” I remind him, my stomach twisting with sudden uncertainty. “I’m Acacia. I work at NYU. I came here to stay with a friend for the summer.”
