LOLA
Seattle looks exactly like how I left it, except all the rain from the mountains must finally be hitting the city, in that constant, low-grade drizzle you get used to living here. It’s like the mountains took the bite out of the storm, and now it’s petering out in the streets and alleyways.
Everything is gray as I navigate back to our apartment, struggle to get the garage door opener from my glove box, and pull in. The garage isn’t nice, by any means. I have to watch out for broken glass, and the ceiling feels low enough that I worry I might scrape against it when I go over a bump.
But it’s better than parking on the street.
I pull into my spot and wrench my aching, tired body out of the driver’s seat. I should just bring everything up now — all my gear is in a twisted, moist heap on the floor in the backseat, thanks to Rowan — but I can’t face it. All I want is to crawl into my bed, try to sleep off the oppressive, dark sadness that blooms in my chest and threatens to creep up into my throat.
So I take only what I need. The suitcase in the back and my phone.
When I push open the door to our apartment, it’s dark, and for a second, I think Maisie must be at work, interning, or at the library.
But then she comes around the corner, her hair wild, her eyes blazing, nearly slipping as she tries to take the corner of the breakfast bar, her socks sliding against the hardwood.
“Lola May Kennedy!”
“Maisie, what?—”
“Where thehellhave you been?” she asks, not giving me time to answer as she shakes her phone at me. “Have you heard ofanswering your phone? I thought you were dead!”
I open my mouth, glance at the calendar, realize I was supposed to be back yesterday at the latest, then shut it again.
“Hello?” Maisie says, and then I burst into tears. She pauses, stunned, then sets her phone down on the counter with asmack, stepping up to me and wrapping me in her arms. “Hey,hey, it’s okay. Lola, what the hell happened?”
We move to the couch together and she brings me a glass of water. By the time I’m done recounting the story — losing my drone, finding it, hurting my ankle, thinking I might be murdered, then definitely getting way too deep in my feelings for a man I’d just met — I’ve stopped crying, though the tears are lingering in the back of my throat.
“And you havenoidea why he told you to leave?” Maisie asks, her eyes still wide with awe at the story. She’s also kind oflooking at me like I might have consumed a wild mushroom and dreamed up the whole thing. I almost wish that were the case.
For the sake of the story, I told Maisie about Rowan’s obsession with privacy, but not his real identity. Not the fact that he’s a billionaire hiding in the mountains to avoid the scandal thrust upon him by his ex-friend and ex-girlfriend.
“No,” I say, running my finger around the rim of the glass, thinking about the cold look on his face. “I don’t.”
As much as Maisie wants to stay up all night and get more juicy details, she has an exam early in the morning, which is fine, because I feel talked out and just want to bury myself in my bed. I take a shower, letting myself cry dramatically under the stream, then put on my softest pajamas and burrito myself into my quilt.
I know I shouldn’t, but I grab my phone, opening it for the first time since yesterday.
And it’s open to the gallery.
I blink at it, the video it’s open to. The empty plate, me smiling, shooting outside the window, showing the scene beyond.
It hits me, all at once. When I came out this morning, Rowan was standing there, my phone sitting neatly atop my suitcase.
He looked at it. I never put passwords on my phone — I can’t remember them — so I’m used to leaving it unlocked. He must have thought I was betraying him. Recording and taking videos even when he asked me not to.
The thought falls into my stomach, heavy, sinking. I imagine him standing there, swiping through the gallery, getting that look likethe one he had that first night I met him. He has good reason to hide, wanting to be left alone.
And he thought I was planning on posting this stuff.
Grabbing my pillow, I stuff it against my face and scream into the fluff, frustration and hurt welling up inside me. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that me taking the pictures led to this, or the fact that Rowan didn’t trust me.
Maybe, after what happened to him, he won’t really trust anyone again.
But I wanted to be an exception.
“Lola Kennedy,”I say, giving my best smile to the woman behind the table, though I’m sure it’s far from reaching my eyes.
“Hmm,” she says, dragging her finger down a long list of names on a clipboard. It takes a second, but then she nods, smiles at me, reaching for the name tags beside her. “Yes, there you are. Let me get you a tag. You can write your name, then your handle.”
