And a bartending position at a pub in the West Village where they hired someone else before I even finished the interview.
“You see anything good?” Cori asks, not looking up from her paper.
“Not yet. You?”
“Nothing you haven’t already said no to.”
“Oh,” Cori says, not looking up. “Your mom called again today.”
I keep my eyes on the newsprint, on the words Must Handle Large Dogs. “I’ll call her back.”
“You said that yesterday. And the day before.”
“I’ve been busy. I’ll get back to her soon.” The lie is thin as tissue.
The truth is more complicated than that.
I don’t know how my parents tracked me down. Maybe they hired someone, like a private investigator or something. But the first time I picked up the phone two weeks ago and heard my mother’s voice on the other end—clipped, controlled, furious—I nearly threw up right there on the kitchen floor. I hung up without saying anything.
She’s called six times since then. I haven’t answered once.
I know I need to call my parents back. But even though part of me misses them—misses the version of them that exists when everything is fine and I’m being who they want me to be—the bigger part isn’t ready. I’m not ready to deal with the aftermath. The anger, the disappointment, the mess I left behind.
I can only imagine what’s been happening since I left. Reporters camped outside the house, Daniel’s family threatening lawsuits, my mother having to cancel appearances because of the scandal. My father probably locked himself in his office and refused to deal with any of it. That’s what he does when things get messy.
“Daniel called too,” Cori says.
I wince.
“That’s his fifth call in two days.” She’s looking at me fully now, chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth. “What happened there? It seems like he really can’t let you go or something.”
I don’t know what to say. I haven’t told Cori or Marcus the full story—that I was supposed to marry him, that I ran away from my own wedding, that my face was all over the news for weeks. I’ve been so careful, so vague, and they’ve been kindenough not to push. But the phone calls are a pressure cooker, and the lid is rattling.
“We were together for a while,” I say, which is technically true. “It didn’t work out. He’s having a hard time accepting that.”
“How long is a while?”
“Two years.”
“Damn. That’s rough.” She takes a bite of lo mein. “Was it bad? The breakup?”
“You could say that.”
“Did he cheat on you or something? Because five calls in two days seems—”
“He didn’t cheat on me.”
“Then what—”
“Cori.” I set my Coke down. “I’ll call them back soon, okay? I just don’t want to talk about it right now.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “Okay.”
I rub my temples, pen still in hand. “They’re just giving me a headache.”
“Am I included in ‘they’?” She pokes me with her chopstick.
I smile despite myself and elbow her back. “All the time.”
