Across The Pond

Paige

I sat bolt-upright in one of Tom’s big leather chairs, staring at him as he dialed a number. The dozens of tiny arched windows behind him let in shafts of the setting sun, highlighting the details of yet another of his carefully decorated rooms. I couldn’t place this theme, but everything flowed in a natural way I found way more comforting than the soaring ridiculousness of my bedroom. Even the liquor cart, which I could have laughed at having in his office if my heart wasn’t beating out of my chest, had legs that curled like vines up to its leaf-shaped top. The edges of my hair still clung damply to my face, and I felt weirdly vulnerable, even fully clothed with a desk between us. I hadn’t even meant to say that stuff about it being unfair; it just tumbled out. But he took it in stride, like he seemed to take everything, and immediately leapt to trying to fix it. Maybe McKenna was dead—my body trembled—but I had to try. We had to try.

Somehow, I believed he was actually trying.