Page 23 of Without a Clue

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Be forced to go to plays and try out new coffee shops for research. Suffer through five-star dining at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Be forced to have breakfast in bed overlooking Fifth Avenue at the Peninsula. Be a grumbling plus-one through Christmas-themed train rides across the country.”

“Go diving at exotic islands.”

“I did that, remember? Hawaii. Last November,” I say, lifting my finger. “It was horrifying. Not the cutesy foot-long snorkel kind. The here, Pip, just hold your breath and swim through this cave underwater in under thirty seconds while the tide’s in or you die kind of thing.”

Nash laughs. “You? No.”

“Yep.”

“No.”

“What choice did I have? It’s my job.”

“Plenty of choice. You could’ve told him no.”

“I can’t tell Hugh no.”

Once I stood outside at three in the morning beside the 65th Street train in Queens with a mysterious paper sack I was ordered not to look inside, and when he strode in at 3:20 a.m., he was both deliriously excited and irate that (a) a character he’d created just like me would actually be so dumb as to obey direct orders, and (b) I, Penelope Mae Dupont, was actually so dumb as to obey direct orders.

I never heard the end of it.

“And how does that work out for all of us?” I say. “Saying no? Does he ever really lose? Anyway, I had to go to therapy afterward. For the record.”

“Not a fan of closed spaces anymore?”

“Not a fan of closed spaces underwater,” I correct. “Let’s just say I didn’t ask Hugh permission to spend an obscene amount of trip money for bedrooms above sea level.”

“I did wonder if the wallpaper was real gold.”

“It’s actually possible for what he—or really, you all—spent. Sorry.”

“What do I write for, if not for you to enjoy wallpaper made of real gold?” he says with a little smile.

His laissez-faire words flip around in my stomach.

I purse my lips.

“Well,” he says, rubbing his nose, “for what it’s worth, I’m sorry he made you do that diving trip. Sometimes he gets himself so wrapped up in his ideas he drags us all under.”

He looks away to the black distance of the sea beyond, and I see a little squint between his brows that makes my brows crease as well. “Heavy talk for one of the fabulous Seven, Nash.”

When he looks back at me, though, he stands up, brushing away the moment. “Ignore me, Pip. I’m just dead tired. I don’t think I’ve had a good night’s sleep in a week. Walk you back?”

He gathers up his things while I fold the towel and put it on a stack with the others.

“You don’t need to follow me all the way to my door. I think it’s fair to say I’ve made it,” I say, pausing at Nash’s door.

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

I laugh. Swing my head left. Spy my door. Look back.

“I’m five doors down. I think I can manage.”

He shuffles his feet uncertainly, as though seriously pausing to think whether he’d be neglectful if he let me walk thirty feet alone. It’s so humorous I pat him on the shoulder. “Good to see chivalry’s not dead, though. Good night, Nash. Or . . . enjoy those good three hours before we have to do this all again. See you for the eggs and bacon.”

“And pistachio pudding.”