My phone rings. I reach for it and look at the screen.
Fuck. I hit decline and wait for the next call. It comes twenty seconds later.
Decline.
Ring.
Decline.
And on and on. I finally power my phone off and forcibly push away from my desk. The house phone rings.
How the fuck did she get this number? The paging tenor infiltrates my eardrums and makes me clench my jaw. I let it die, but soon the ringing starts again.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I sprint to the master landline in the kitchen and yank the jack out of the base. I’m breathing heavily as I slide down against the cabinet. I put my face in my hands.
I guess it’s true when they say you can’t outrun your past. No matter how many times I change my number, she still finds me. I think a part of me likes it—perhaps because it’s possible that she cares.
I doubt it.
I’m done. I’ve been done for a long time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Finley
I’ve said my goodbyes to Hannah a thousand times when I get the call from Brady. His voice startles me—he sounds so young. I hug Hannah one last time. “Okay, he’s here. I’ll be back Friday night.”
“I’ve cleared my schedule for you.” She smiles and smacks my butt, pushing me out the door. I drag my small suitcase behind me, clunking against each step of the forty-five stairs down to the street. I take a deep breath. This is actually happening. And it’s real—the twenty-five thousand was securely in my bank account as of seven p.m. last night.
A silver Subaru SUV is waiting at the curb. I wave, and a small, nerdy guy hops out and runs up to me.
“Finley? I’m Brady.” He shakes my hand and takes my suitcase.
“Nice to meet you, Brady.” I study him as he loads my luggage into the trunk. He’s wearing an NYU shirt, and his curly hair is matted to one side. He’s sporting thick glasses, and he’s at least two inches shorter than me—and that’s saying a lot since I’m only five-foot-four on a good day. “Hey, you went to NYU too?”
“I go to NYU. I’ll be a junior in the fall. I’m just helping Emerson out with the house and various chores for the summer.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointment lodging in my throat. Why did I think we’d be the only two in the house? And more importantly, why do I care that we won’t be? “That’s nice of him to hire you.”
“We go way back. My older brother, Isaac, is his best friend. I’m fifteen years younger than Isaac, so Emerson’s been around pretty much my whole life. We grew up on the same street on Long Island. Are you from the area?” His nasally voice is endearing, and as I hop into the passenger seat, I make a mental note that Emerson is from Long Island.
“Yeah. I grew up north of here.” I don’t specify, but Brady continues to probe.
“Oh, uptown?”
I nod. “Mmm-hmm.” That seals it—Long Islanders know the kind of people who live uptown. I know those people. I ran away from those people as soon as I could. “But don’t worry. I’ve long since grown to love downtown more.”
“Cool,” is all he says. He pulls away from the curb, and I buckle myself in. I don’t say anything as we inch along the western border of Manhattan, uptown and toward Harlem. When we finally get to the I-95 ramp, I lean back and smile.
“So, what’s it like to work for Emerson Whittaker?”
Brady just shrugs. “He’s a good guy. But I’m biased because he’s practically family.”
“Are your families close then?” I imagine Emerson and Isaac biking around the idyllic suburbia as kids, eating too much cotton candy at the local theatre, and promising to always stay friends. Just the fact Brady works for Emerson must mean he values where he came from.
“Um, not really. From what Isaac told me, Emerson’s parents weren’t really around.”
The rigid tone of voice doesn’t register in my mind, so I probe further. “Oh, but I thought you said you grew up on the same street?” I needle, confused.
Brady’s jaw clenches, and he grips the steering wheel tighter. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forget it.”
I tense next to him, multiple scenarios playing through my mind. His parents weren’t around much? Like . . . they worked too much? Or something far more sinister? It must be the latter, because Brady looks pissed for saying anything.
“So, what are you studying at NYU?” I buzz cheerfully. I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Brady.
“Film. I want to be a director one day.”
I smile. “That’s so cool.”
“Isaac is a film editor. It’d be nice to work in the same industry as him.”
“You two are close?” I ask, fidgeting with the raw hem of my white, sleeveless blouse. Thank goodness I remembered my sunglasses, as the closer we get to the shore, the brighter it gets. Or maybe it’s because there are wider, open spaces around here—no buildings to block the sunlight.
“Yeah.” He hasn’t looked over at me once, and I get the distinct impression Brady is done talking.
I don’t say anything else as he not-so-subtly turns the radio on. NPR drones through the speakers, and I listen quietly as Ira Glass discusses Iran and Syria. I’m mildly invested when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s Hannah, checking up on me. I give her the lowdown, everything from Emerson and his mysterious past to the fact that Brady dislikes me. She tells me Geoff is already at the apartment, moving around the furniture. She says it endearingly, but it makes me sad that change comes so quickly after I leave.
“We’re almost there,” Brady announces about an hour later as he pulls off I-495 to NY-27, towards Montauk. I’m reminded of times my father and I used to take day trips to our beach house in the winter. He loved Montauk. It’s less crowded than the Hamptons. We’d visit for fun because the beach is beautiful when it snows.
A small, tugging feeling begins in my chest when I think of our house in Montauk, not too far from the Hamptons. In fact, I can still remember exactly how to get there. I don’t even know if my parents still own it. Ten years—that’s how long it’s been since I’ve been back. For once, I’m glad to be back in this part of New York. I wonder if the air feels the same as it did when I was a kid.
The Hamptons are such a juxtaposition from the city—and yet every New Yorker comes here at least once in their lives. The wide roads and serene setting are the exact opposite of Manhattan.
Brady turns right off NY-27, edging past mansions built right on the beach. I spot the ocean between them, and my smile widens. Matching pastel colors assault my eyes, and I dream of one day owning something this spectacular.
“Here we are,” Brady mumbles, pulling through an open gate and into the driveway of a large but modest home. It’s a classic beach house—light-blue paint, navy shutters, and a navy front door. There are lots of windows that probably don’t have drapes. Because why would you hide the sunlight? New Yorkers come here for the sunlight. Not to block it out. No drapes needed here.
“It’s beautiful.” As Brady pulls up to the door, I scan the front yard for Emerson.
“Emerson is out right now,” he says quickly, answering my silent question. “He’ll be back soon. I’ll show you around.”
He opens his door and jumps out. As he opens the trunk, I get out of the SUV and study my home for the next six months—Monday through Friday, at least. Tall hedges divide us from either neighbor, and the gravel driveway is surprisingly elegant and formal as it curves around a small fountain, leading back toward the gate and the main road. The two-story house is smaller than I imagined. I wonder if he lives alone. I never thought to ask. For all I know, he has a wife or girlfriend, or possibly even a family. I didn’t think this through. God, what if he’s married? I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask him.
“This is lovely,” I say, taking my suitcase from Brady.
“Yeah. It’s pretty great. His first two books were optioned by Paramount, so he took that money and invested it in this house.”
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“Is he married?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too clueless.
“Nah.” He chuckles, and I’m left wondering why he thought my question was so funny. He locks the car and I follow him to the blue front door. He punches in a code, and the door clicks open. “The code is Emerson’s first publication date: December eleventh, 2008. 121108,” he adds, as if I didn’t comprehend the numbers the first time around. He pushes the door open for me and I walk into a small foyer.
A stack of mail lies on a small, vintage wooden table right next to a coat rack. The wood floors give the place a rustic, charming feel. I follow Brady down the hallway, passing a casual living room with a fireplace, a formal dining room, and a large kitchen with stainless steel appliances.
“Feel free to use anything in the kitchen. Emerson and I both like to cook, and some nights my brother will join us.”
I nod. “Okay.”
My eyes graze the wine rack and the cookie jar. I think I will be just fine here, especially if there are cookies and wine. Brady continues the tour, pointing to the large floor-to-ceiling window opposite the kitchen.
“The deck is out here. Behind it is a private beach. Again, make yourself at home.” He continues up the stairs to the bedrooms. The first door is open. “This is your room.” He gestures to a quaint bedroom. I smile and walk in, setting my suitcase down.
A massive, white plush rug covers the floor, and a substantial four-poster queen-sized bed with luxurious white linen sheets looks too good to be true. The room is painted a light grey, and most of the furniture is either white or raw wood. I love it.
“You have an en-suite bathroom, too,” Brady says, pointing quickly to the white-tiled bathroom and claw foot bathtub. Yes!
“Awesome,” I reply, giddy. Brady just laughs and walks out, pointing to three other rooms down the hallway.
“Next to your room is Emerson’s office. He’s very secretive about it. Don’t go in without permission.”
“God,” I laugh, “does he keep dead hookers in there or something?”
This makes Brady laugh. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve always wondered, though.” He looks at me with amusement. “But now I’m not going to stop thinking about dead hookers.” It seems I’ve found a friend with a quirky sense of humor like mine. This could be fun. “Next to the study is my room. I don’t stay over most nights, but Emerson likes to keep my room furnished. Isaac has a house close by, so I usually just stay with him. And the one at the end of the hallway is Emerson’s bedroom.” The door is closed, but I want to see what it looks like. I’ve always been extremely nosy, and with Emerson’s mysterious past, I’m particularly intrigued. “I’m going to go downstairs and make lunch. You can get settled. Do you have any allergies or aversions?”
I smile. “I dislike green peas and chunky peanut butter. No allergies. Thank you, that’s so thoughtful of you,” I say, grinning.
“No problem,” Brady says abruptly, turning quickly and walking down the stairs.
As weird and as stiff as he is, I think I’m starting to like Brady.
I close my bedroom door. The first thing I do is take my shoes off and climb up onto the bed, jumping and squealing like a giddy schoolgirl. I reach into my pocket and attempt a SnapChat to Hannah, but I can’t connect to WiFi.
Shit. I forgot. No Internet. No TV. I never could afford a data plan, so I rely solely on WiFi. This might be more difficult than I thought. I call Hannah instead. She doesn’t answer, so I leave an excited voice message.
When I’m done bragging, I hang up and jump off the bed. I begin to unpack, laying my clothes neatly in the drawers of the birch dresser topped with white marble. I walk to the bathroom and put my toiletries away. I set my laptop on top of the small white desk. When all is said and done, I place the picture of Chloe on my bedside table along with the five books I thought to bring along—two of which are Emerson’s.
I quickly change out of my khakis and blouse, throwing on a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. It is the beach, after all. I pull my hair back into a high ponytail and open his very first book, which is my personal favorite.
Underground Love is the kind of book that really makes you think about life. The premise is appealing—two people are trapped underground for weeks, relying on the kindness of their kidnapper for meals and showers. They start out as complete strangers. And yet, the man and woman begin to fall in love. The whole thing comes to a head when they’re finally rescued. They don’t want to leave their captivity, because those five weeks were the happiest of their lives.
I flip through it, rereading his beautiful words. Now that I know this is the only book he’s written himself, it makes it that much more special. A few minutes later, I’m studying Emerson on the sleeve of the hardcover. He’s much younger in the picture—and his hair used to be longer. Emerson Whittaker grew up on Long Island but now resides in the East Village. He is currently a professor at New York University and teaches multiple creative writing classes.
I snap the book shut. He taught at NYU? I went to NYU, and I majored in Creative Writing. I don’t remember his name on the course list, so he must’ve left before I had a chance to take one of his classes. This book was published in 2008, and I started in 2008. I make a mental note to ask him about it later. No wonder all of my other professors pushed his books so often—they worked with him.
This guy is getting more and more mysterious as the day goes on. I want to know more. Without thinking, I walk to my door and slowly open it. I can hear Brady clanking around downstairs in the kitchen, but other than that, the coast seems clear. I tiptoe to the room next door. Using my super-sleuth skills, I turn the handle and feel relieved it’s not locked.
Yesss.
It’s a regular office. There are no dead hookers. I leave the door cracked so I can listen for any noises from Brady and walk slowly to the desk. Papers are scattered all over. A laptop sits haphazardly on top of some of them, and below that, a birch desk. A camel-colored leather desk chair sits tucked in neatly. A large bookcase houses multiple copies of his four books. I finger the spines of all of them. I’ve read them all—and they’re all mind-blowing.
I saunter back over to the desk. There are no pictures—something I was hoping for. Something personal. But this room is just about as impersonal as you can get. I eye the papers on the desk. They’re all handwritten notes, scattered thoughts, phrases, random sentences . . . my eyes catch one of the sentences.
Her eyes were always evil, like a snake: predatory and narrowed. They had the power to cause the most pain of all. That was the day I learned what it meant to hate, and I learned it from my mother.
I’ve barely comprehended the words when I hear a loud creak. I look up, shocked. Emerson is standing in the door, watching me with a look of abhorrence. His fists are balled at his side, and his face is flushed. I feel my stomach drop as low as it can go, and the nauseating feeling of the blood draining from my face makes my knees weak. WHY do I have to be such a snoop?
“Emerson, I—”
“You shouldn’t be in here.” He doesn’t move. I want to run out of this room, out of this house, and never come back. If I could crawl underneath this house, I would. I might be terrified of bugs, but I’d do it just to get out of this situation. I’d even swim out to sea—my ultimate fear. Right now, I’d do just about anything to get away from his angry face. That’s right, Emerson is downright enraged. To see him furious is chilling, especially since he’s been nothing but agreeable since we’ve met.
“I know,” I say weakly. My voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Get out,” he whispers, stepping aside, waiting for me to leave. He’s terrifyingly calm.
I sprint for the door and brush past him. I don’t stop to look at his face. I know what he’s thinking.
I know because I have heard it before. Keep your nose out of other people’s business, Finley. Things are private for a reason. If we had wanted you to know, we would have told you. Why? Why did I have t
o go and ruin something so potentially good? Because that is what I do. There is a reason why curiosity killed the cat . . . Learn, Finley. Shit. SHIT.
I’m totally going to get fired for this.
CHAPTER SIX
Emerson
I don’t give my writers very many rules. In fact, I’d like to think I’m pretty easygoing. They write from the outlines I provide them. They spend their free time doing whatever the fuck they want. I make sure they’re comfortable. I want this to be an enjoyable experience for them, too. I get something out of it, and they get something out of it.
My two rules are pretty easy to remember. First, don’t tell anyone about our arrangement. The terms I set with my lawyer are strict as hell about confidentiality. I don’t allow any compromises. Ever.
Second, don’t go into my office.
It’s not even about privacy. I mean, I guess with her, some of it is about privacy—but I still haven’t figured out how to broach that whole subject. But for fuck’s sake, Finley will learn everything there is to know about me in the coming weeks. She has no need to snoop.
I have boundaries. My office is my sanctuary. It’s weird, I know, but it’s my space. It’s messy, unorganized, and I need to know it’s for my eyes only. I never had a space of my own growing up. Everything was everyone’s. My toys were theirs. My sheets weren’t mine, not really—they got passed around like a football during a game. Even the bathrooms didn’t have stalls. I had to shit in front of every other kid there. I never had a sanctuary.
Maybe that’s why I ask people to leave it alone. If it becomes another place that belongs to someone else too . . . I’ll get pulled back into all that shit. And I really don’t want to do that because I worked so hard to crawl out of it.
She never should’ve been there. She never should’ve opened that door. In doing so, she invaded a part of me I didn’t give her permission to invade. She’s not ready to learn everything. I’m not ready to divulge everything.
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