Page 11

M y phone vibrates against my chest and my groggy brain makes me slap it away. It buzzes and buzzes, but I need a few more minutes to sleep. That’s it. Just five minutes. The phone’s muffled humming resumes from the carpet next to my bed. Someone is calling me now. What kind of sadistic person makes a phone call in this day and age? And before sunrise? That’s what texting is for. It must be Joe. He’s the only person I know who’s awake at this hour.

Wait—a detail registers in my foggy brain—there’s no carpet next to my bed.

My eyes blink open and last night rushes back to my mind like I'm remembering the best kind of dream. Anders and I “watched a movie” together. We sort of held hands. He took a long phone call. Then I must have fallen asleep. I feel like I swallowed a whole packet of Pop Rocks. My stomach is in my throat. I slept on Anders Beck’s couch.

BANG! BANG! BANG! Now someone is pounding on the door, and I scramble to my feet, snatching my phone from the floor as I go.

I swipe to answer the call. “I’m fine, I’m fine… ” I reassure Joe as I swing open the door .

Oliver is on the other side of the door, his phone pressed to his ear. “Glad to hear it,” his clipped words echo through the phone in my hand. “What are you doing with Anders’ phone?”

My face burns as I pull the device away to inspect. It is definitely not mine. Somehow I have Anders’ phone and answered it. I slept with it. Why do I feel the need to confess? “I thought it was m-mine.”

His eyes scan my frame—from yesterday’s rumpled white blouse, to my sleep-worn jeans, to my bare feet. I drag my fingers through my bedhead and Oliver tracks the movement.

He quirks an eyebrow.

“I must've fallen asleep on the couch.”

Both eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

“I’ll get Anders.” I step past him toward the bedroom.

“Please. Allow me.”

He marches ahead and I scurry after him, feeling like a teenager caught in her boyfriend’s bedroom. It isn’t until we’re at the door that I realize I’ve made a horrible, horrible mistake. Or the best decision of my life. Time will tell.

Oliver yanks the covers off of Anders, revealing a man wearing absolutely nothing except the jeans he had on last night. He’s just miles of sculpted muscles, and I can’t pull my eyes away. His bare torso is perfection—like he was carved from solid marble by a sculptor who was asked to recreate the perfect male specimen. Every muscle from his chest, down his arms, to those swoon-worthy veins in his wrists and hands, is exquisite. He’s a work of art. He’s a Renaissance sculpture, if Renaissance sculptures had a tan and smirked when you ogled them while mentally waxing poetic.

Oops.

“You were due in make-up twenty minutes ago,” Oliver snaps. “Get up.”

I stare at my bare feet, but I’m tracking Anders’ every move in my periphery. He pulls a gray t-shirt over his head—pity—and stuffs his feet into his shoes. “Let’s go,” he claps his manager on the shoulder, “You can lecture me on the way there.”

He stops in front of me, standing between Oliver and me like a shield. He pulls a baseball hat over his messy hair while his sleepy eyes scan my face. His voice is low, “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you. You were so out, I didn’t have the heart.”

I shrink, hiding behind the solid wall that is Anders. “I think I’m in trouble,” my shaky voice whispers.

My heart is thumping. In school, I was the kid who turned in my work early and followed every rule. I stop at stop signs at one o’clock in the morning. I get nervous walking through the security screening at the airport because what if I accidentally have a bomb in my carry-on? I hate being in trouble. This isn’t me.

His bright blue eyes stare straight into mine. “I think I’m in trouble, too,” he says, and that crooked grin of his makes an appearance. “Different kind of trouble, but still... trouble.”

Then he and Oliver close the door behind them, leaving me to wonder what he meant. That man .

“You can do it, Immy.” I squeeze her sticky little hand in mine. “It’s not much farther.”

We’re hiking Aspiration Trail. Imogen left her painted rock alongside the path ten steps in and declared she had had enough nature, but I still need to leave my sunny-painted rock at the top of the hill. I’m determined to keep this kid off of screens today, and I keep missing my morning run because of Anders’ chaotic schedule. I miss those endorphins and the vitamin D. A little outside time will be good for both of us.

“I’m tired of walking,” she announces. Her jelly shoes aren’t helping the situation. They’re covered in dust, which is turning into sludge between her sweaty toes. But she insisted on them. She also insisted on bringing Hairy, who is enthusiastic about every lizard and bird that darts in her line of sight. Her leash is wrapped five times around my left hand because she keeps lunging toward the bushes.

We’re surrounded by rocky cliffs and desert blossoms. The spring sun rose behind a thick layer of clouds, but it’s finally starting to warm the air, and birds are chirping. “I know you’re tired, but isn’t this a pretty morning, Immy? Let’s look for flowers while we walk. I bet we can find one in every color.”

She tugs her hand out of mine. “No. That’s boring.” She sits on a rock and folds her arms. Hairy mimics the stubborn pose, lying in the dirt with her paws crossed in front of her.

Dang Julie Andrews.

Her character made this look so easy in The Sound of Music . How did she get seven children to run through the Austrian countryside, laughing and singing with her? I can’t even inspire one child to take a short walk up a singular hill. I’m sorry, Julie. It’s not your fault.

I sigh, pulling my rock out of my back pocket with my free hand. My sloppily painted rays of happy yellow sunshine do not match the sky or the general mood of my hiking companion. I place the rock in a grouping of other painted rocks in various stages of fading. One of the rocks reads, “Live Laugh Love” in purple cursive. I imagine myself picking it up and launching it into the desert with an echoing cackle. Instead, I take it and sit on the rock next to Imogen.

“Can you read this?” I show her the rock.

She sighs and I’m surprised when she sounds out the words live, laugh, and love—despite the fact that her tone conveys death, sadness, and infinite despair.

“It’s annoying, right?”

“Yep.” She scuffs her jelly shoe in the dirt and Hairy leans into her leg.

“I think so, too. It feels like being told to be happy. Like, if I’m not enjoying life, let me figure out why. Don’t just tell me to be happy so you don’t have to live with a sad person. Honestly, it seems a little selfish to me—commanding someone to live, laugh, love.” I grin to myself. “And don’t tell someone to laugh. If they’re not laughing, the jokes need to improve.”

Silence from the boulder next to me.

“Are you sad today, Immy?”

She shakes her head.

“Are you mad?”

“No.”

“Tired?”

She huffs.

“Dumb question,” I chuckle, crossing my ankles in front of me. “You seem unhappy. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to walk anymore.”

That’s not all, though. She was grouchy from the moment she stumbled out of her bedroom this morning a few minutes after her dad left. “Okay. I found a spot for my rock. We can be done, we just have to walk back to my car.” I brush my hands on my legs. “Let’s go.”

“I’m tired of going places,” she mumbles to her dusty shoes.

“What do you mean?” I let the question hang. If I don’t move or say anything, I won’t startle her out of answering.

She sighs deeply, like the weight of life is bearing down on her fragile, five-year-old shoulders. “We go lots of places, but sometimes I want to go home.”

“Okay, I’ll take you back to the suite as soon as we get back to the car. I promise.” She must not have slept well last night. If I didn’t have to drag Hairy down this hill, I would have offered to carry her.

Her red, watery eyes blink up at me. They’re her dad’s eyes, and seeing them anything but bright makes my chest hurt. “No! I want to go home!” she screeches, and bolts up the path the wrong direction. Hairy bounds after her. Unfortunately, the dog is still securely tethered to my wrist .

I’ve been water skiing before. I’ve been pulled around a lake by a boat. Being pulled around the desert by the largest dog on planet earth is similar, but there are differences—face planting on water versus face planting on gravel, for starters. It hurts.

I scream, “Hairy! Stop!” while being dragged face down across the ground. I yank the leash with all my strength to pull myself more upright, but I’m still stumbling forward on my knees and elbows. I use the tension Hairy is creating to regain my footing, tripping ahead.

This dog isn’t stopping. And neither is Imogen. Pain vaguely registers in various parts of my body, but my only concern is catching up to Immy before she’s lost in the desert.

I tug on the leash, jogging to match Hairy’s pace. She can’t drag me if I outrun her. “Hairy! No! Bad girl!” I scold, heading in what I hope is the direction Immy ran. Hairy gallops at my side, seemingly content that we’re on the same mission. It turns out that when I’m not being dragged horizontally by her, Hairy makes a good running partner. Our pace is similar.

“Immy!” I holler. I spot her bright blonde ponytail bobbing ahead on the trail and my tense shoulders relax. There’s no way a kid in jelly shoes is outrunning me. I did our town marathon last fall and took third place in my age bracket. This is asinine.

I pick up the pace, relieved that Imogen is visible and safe. It doesn’t take long before we catch up to her. She has slowed considerably, marching uphill toward the end of the hike where there’s a stone monument and a view of the valley and small town below.

When we’re close enough, Hairy whines and pushes her wet snout into Immy’s hand.

“You can't run away like that, Immy. It’s dangerous.”

She swings around to face me, wiping her upturned nose on the sleeve of her shirt. “I don’t wanna be here! ”

I take a deep breath. I don’t know a lot about kids, but in the short time I’ve had with her, I’ve learned that this one will match my energy. “I know. We’re going to leave, but you went the wrong way. The car is back there.” I say calmly, hitching a thumb behind us with a soft smile.

“No! I want to go to my house. I don’t want to sleep at a hotel and go in other people’s cars. I want to go in my dad’s car, and have my bed in my room!” she sobs.

Oh.

Suddenly, I’m feeling desperately under-qualified for this job. I don’t know what to tell her. Does she know she won’t be going home for a few months yet? I’m not going to break it to her.

“Have you told your dad you want to go home?” Yes. This feels right. Let her dad give her the news.

“Yeah. He says we will. But I want to go home today, though.” She sniffles.

Now I have a conflict of interest. I don’t want any of them to go home, except maybe the dog. Don’t let the door hit you in the tail on the way out, Hairy . I think I finally get what Immy is saying, though, and my heart squeezes.

“I’m sorry, Im. I bet it’s hard to feel so homesick.”

She nods and sniffles, drawing in a shaky breath.

“You should talk to your dad about this. He can help you.”

She nods, but I know I need to do more.

The thing is, I can’t relate. I sigh. This is embarrassing. “I guess I don’t know what that feels like. I’ve never really been anywhere but home.” I shrug, hoping the five-year-old doesn’t judge me for barely leaving the county I was born in.

She wipes her nose on her sleeve again and I make a mental note to keep some tissues in my pocket. “You’re lucky.”

“I don’t know about that. Did you know that I’ve never been on a plane? I’ve only ever driven to a few places. I don’t have a passport. My family has lived in the same house my whole life, doing the same things, with the same people. I am so. boring.” Whoa. Where did that come from? This child isn’t your therapist, Sunny. Maybe cool it with the info-dumping?

“You never went on a plane?” Her horrified expression tells me that her worries are forgotten—temporarily, at least. “Why?!”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” But I know exactly why: I’m so consumed with having my life in precise control that I can’t leave my job. And maybe I am a little boring. That’s a long answer for a five-year-old, so I say, “Can you believe that?” I can’t, either. I lead her back onto the path and I’m relieved when she follows without complaint.

Her eyes go wide. “You have to go on a plane. It’s so fun.” She’s practically bouncing down the trail now, pointing at flowers in between chattering about all of the plane trips she's been on. And I’m left feeling whiplashed by the mood swings of this tiny person.

I look at Hairy and whisper, “Is this normal?”

Hairy’s big, brown eyes blink like she’s seen some things, but Oliver had her sign a pile of NDAs.

“Okay, then.”

I tug the leash, and Hairy and I follow Immy back down the trail. Tears forgotten. Homesickness—what’s that? I unlock my car and Immy is climbing into the back seat before she speaks again.

“You have blood on your face.”

My right cheek started to throb once the adrenaline of our adventure wore off, but I know better than to touch an open wound with unclean fingers, so the severity of the injury was a mystery until now. I peek in the rearview mirror. Gross. There’s a long drag mark across my cheek with a line of blood dripping to my jaw. I also have some impressive road rash on my knees and elbows, thanks to Ms. Hairy’s Wild Ride. Luckily, I have a first aid kit in my glovebox and plenty of experience using it.

While I’m swiping my cheek with an alcohol wipe, I scowl at Hairy, who is panting from her fur-coated seat. I swear she’s smiling, completely oblivious that she made a mess of my face. She’s just happy to be here, stinking up the interior of my car.

“Maybe warn me next time you want to go racing across the desert, Hairy.” I roll my eyes at the dog. These dumb wipes are stinging and making my eyes water.

“Just so you know, she can’t understand you,” Immy reminds me.

“I know.”

I need a Coke. A big one.