Page 31 of Famous for a Living

For several seconds he stands there, watching my eyes, looking like he’s trying to choose his next words carefully. It’s clear enough that he doesn’t want to offend, doesn’t want to play any sort of game. That’s fair. I don’t either. And yet every word out of his mouth—even the unintentional ones, perhaps particularly the unintentional ones—rubs me raw.

“Looks like that life served you well.”

Like those words.

Those exact, unintentional, and yet completely transparent words.

It’s irritating, and not just because I know what he means: Whereas all your life choices for the past thirteen years have been flawed and pointless, thank goodness for the common sense bestowed on you by the life you were born into.

That’s just mildly irritating.

What he’s really done is worse.

He struck upon a topic far deeper. And managed to praise that which he has no clue of. My past. My parents. The life I escaped.

I place the poker back in its stand and rise. Press my lips together. Smile to dull the sharp edge of my words, to show him I am not aiming my weapon at him, but at what he just said.

“Actually, I wouldn’t wish that life upon my biggest enemy.”

* * *

It’s one thing to wake up in the morning after thirteen years surrounded by the cacophony of taxi horns, buses, and sirens. It’s entirely another sensation to wake up to coffin-level silence because of a bird—just a single, solitary bird—in a world so quiet my eyes snap open like a roman shade at the sound of its cah! overhead.

Unsettling.

It’s also unsettling to find oneself staring at a wall of logs instead of my penthouse’s paper-white walls. But then my memory catches up and the past twenty-four hours—the tumultuous flight, the terrifying drive, the freezing shack of a cabin, and the exhaustion prompting me to drop into the first bed I came upon—all of it comes roaring back to me.

But to roll over and find myself looking at a dark-headed figure standing in the doorway is an entirely new level of scary.

I practically jump out of the sheets, and before I know it I’m sitting upright, holding the patchwork quilt to my nose like a shield.

But instead of reaching for a weapon of choice, the figure in the doorway also jumps, disappearing into the living room.

For several heavy-breathing seconds, I stare at the empty space in the doorway.

She peeks her head back into the room—a little squirrel-like, actually—and slowly, I lower the quilt from my face.

Our eyes lock for several seconds.

She seems to make a decision.

“Oh, hiii,” she says overbrightly as she steps into full view, as though she just stumbled upon a friend on her way to being seated at a restaurant. “You’re up.”

I squint, then blink furiously as my vision is blocked by the wagging black centipede of plastic covering one eye. I reach for yesterday’s lashes I neglected to take off. “Hi.” I pause. “Who are you?”

The girl looks positively mortified as she watches me peel the lashes off.

“I’m . . . Mina Marsero.” The girl lifts her gaze from the lashes in my hand and rushes forward, shaking my free hand. “Assistant junior park ranger, assistant junior wildlife instructor, and assistant junior secretary during lunch hours Monday through Friday.”

Sitting upright in bed with one hand holding my wispy lashes, I look down at the other being shaken vigorously by the girl in front of me. There are a lot of assistants and juniors in that title.

Her skin is tan and smooth, the kind makeup markets kill for in their models. Her mahogany eyes are energetic, carrying a doe-eyed innocence bestowed only upon the young. She looks even younger than her age, no doubt, with the two tight braids resting on the shoulders of her ranger uniform and shining metal badge. It reads: Kannery National Park. And in the name slot: Intern.

“I’m Cat Cranwell. Nice to”—I pause, still not entirely sure what’s going on—“meet you.”

“Oh, I know.”

My shoulders tense, as they have every single day anyone has referenced my current situation. Not that I was so naive that I didn’t expect this. It’s just . . . having a chance to brush my teeth before having to deal with it would’ve been nice.