|photo by Brandon Atchison from Unsplash|
Aunt Emily pushes the button to call the elevator. "This weekend is as much for you as it is for me," she says, turning toward me with a frigid smile. "We begin your transformation next week—starting with dialect coaching. If Bobby can teach Gwyneth Paltrow to speak with a twang, then surely he can teach you to speak without one."
The elevator comes. I boil in silence for the entire twenty-five-floor decent. So it's impossible for me to manage a smile for the elegant woman waiting beside the limousine.
"It's lovely to finally meet you," Jesminda says, and there's no doubt about her accent. Definitely British. She offers her hand. When I take it, she leans closer. "For the record, I was against springing this trip on you at the last minute."
My aunt hears this—as she was meant to—and lifts her chin. "You choose your battles," she says. "I'll choose mine."
Jesminda's thin, arched eyebrows shift in contemplation. It's a subtle, very controlled response. Whereas my expression no doubt reveals every facet of my shock and repulsion. I once overheard a phone conversation where my mom said, "When you're raising a child, you have to choose your battles." Is my aunt harboring some demented fantasy that she's raising me?
"Speaking of battles," Jesminda says. "There is a nine-year-old around here somewhere who is dying to meet you. Antara? Thea is here."
A little girl tumbles out of the limousine, sidles up to me and captures my hand. Her shiny black hair is gathered into a lopsided ponytail. "Hello, Thea. Would you please sit beside me in the limo?" she asks.
Her sweet, formal tone contradicts her disheveled appearance and I can't help but smile for her.
"Of course," I say, at the same time my aunt says, "No, my littlest darling. Thea is riding with your brother."
The little darling fires a sour look at my aunt that makes me like her even more.
"Where is Chase?" Jesminda asks, turning to study the traffic.
Antara points. "He's there!"
And there he is—in the driver's seat of what looks to me like an unmarked race car—illegally parked on the opposite side of the street, smiling the model-comp-card smile and waving me over.
My aunt's eyebrows climb her forehead, challenging me to defy her. I turn back to Chase. He gives me an easy, arguably charming chin lift and I visualize the equation: cute boy plus sporty car equals a fast escape from my bitchy aunt.
I squeeze Antara's hand before I let go. "See you in a couple of hours, right?" I ask. She nods at me and sticks her tongue out at Chase. Antara and I are going to be great friends.
It's not easy to cross Fifth Avenue, but I get it done like a native Upper East Sider. I open the passenger door and drop myself into the contoured seat—next to the Tin Man. In a car that sits so low, it feels like I'm sitting right on the road.
While Chase jockeys for a position in the traffic, I run my fingers through my hair, divide it into three sections and start a braid. "Should I put the top up?" he asks. So thoughtful.
"No. And don't drive slow on my account." Because now that I've accepted the fact that I'm being forced to leave, it feels like my head will explode if I don't get off this freaking island.
I get a genuine smile for my bad-girl attitude, and I have to ask, "Is this your million dollar race car?"
"It's my father's Lamborghini."
"I'm impressed," I admit. "My dad won't even let me drive his thirty-thousand dollar pickup truck."
"I'll let you drive when we get out of town," Chase offers.
I shake my head. "That would be illegal."
His forehead wrinkles, like he's seriously contemplating this new insight into my personality. His phone rings before he can voice a reply. He looks at the number, grimaces and gives me an apologetic smile before he answers.
I take advantage of his distraction and write a quick text to Conner: The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side is making me go to the Hamptons this weekend.
Chase makes minimal contributions to his phone call. I count one no and two yeses. When he needs to shifts gears, he does it with the phone in his hand—without letting his caller know he's no longer listening—and when he hangs up, he tosses the phone on the dashboard.
"That was Emily," he says. "I am not to take your 'inhospitable attitude' personally. Apparently, she's given you reason to be angry at her?"
"I found out about this trip..." I check the time on my phone. "Forty-three minutes ago."
He nods at this, apparently satisfied, but I'm on a roll now. "This trip was not optional for me," I add. "Even though I told her I already had plans. Then, she told me she's hired a voice coach to get rid of my 'twang.' I think I'm starting to hate her."
This gets a nod as well. It feels like an amen.
And then my phone beeps. I have a reply from Conner: Are you going to Water Mill?
"Where are we going?" I ask Chase.
"Water Mill."
Huh.
I type: How did you know?
Any chance you're in the passenger seat of a black Lamborghini?
Mother of shit. "Would you say that you and Conner are good friends?"
"Shit," Chase says, pounding his fist on the steering wheel. "Is that him?"
"Yes."
"I was supposed to call him. Will you tell him I'm sorry?"
I type: Chase says he's sorry he forgot to call you. Explain please?
You're in my spot.
"Conner usually makes this trip with you?"
"Every year since sixth grade," Chase says, sounding genuinely remorseful. Then his phone rings. He leans forward to retrieve it from the dashboard, looks at the number and grins. "Seriously, man, I'm sorry. I was supposed to tell you two weeks ago. Mom said to tell you she would make it up to you."
Wow. So they really are friends.
"That's what I told her you'd say," Chase tells him.
After a pensive moment, he glances at me, one eyebrow raised, and says, "Sure. No problem."
He hangs up and Conner's text comes a moment later: Chase can bring you back to the city on Sunday...
Crap.
"Firming up your plans?" Chase asks.
He's focused on the road in a way that feels intentional—and I'm grateful. My face is on fire.
"Conner and I talked about doing something this weekend, a friend thing, but I didn't do a very good job of telling him no. I'm supposed to hang out with Paige, though. Possibly. So I still might need a ride if you're willing."
"The ride's not a problem," he says. "I like driving this car."
I let that sit with me for a moment, because there's something weird about the way he stressed the ride. "Are you suggesting that something else is a problem?" I ask.
Chase gives me the hottie-half smile. He weaves the car into an open space, shifts gears and we fly. The wind cools the heat on my cheeks. It really is an awesome car.
"Paige's father is related to mine," he says.
It sounds more like a veiled warning than an answer.
I decide to express my observation out loud. Then add, "Conner only offered to give me a tour of the city because I didn't have plans for the weekend and he felt sorry for me. But that was before I made plans with Paige—and I never said I would..."
Ugh. I'm working way too hard to make myself sound innocent. "I know how Paige feels about him," I say.
Chase holds up both palms in surrender.
"Hey!" I yell, frantically pointing, and he puts them back on the steering wheel.
"If I was inclined to issue a warning," he says. "It would be that Paige doesn't know how she feels. About Conner or anyone else."
"Anyone else, meaning me?"
"I said what I mean, Thea."
"Okay, Chase. Well. Thanks, I guess."
He nods politely and we sit in silence until my phone buzzes. Conner: Sorry. I probably should've asked you first. Should I call him back and cancel?
I type: No to the call back. Yes to ask first next time. Apology accepted. But I think we should reschedule the tour to another weekend. Let me know how it goes with Paige Saturday night.
Another message buzzes onto my screen before I press send: btw... lmao about the wicked witch.
I hate that I missed that laugh. I should've waited to tell him in person.
"That smile might be a problem," Chase says. "If it's for your friend, Conner."
I send my text, frowning. Then type: btw... the Tin Man is kind of an ass.