Page 53 of Without a Clue

I’ve screwed up, and snapped at him, and showed my true colors.

Is that really logical, Pip? If he really does hate you for this, doesn’t that mean he’s not that great either?

I don’t know, I tell myself. And right now, I don’t care.

The point is, all along he has thought I’m this nice, sweet little friend of his, the fun-loving partner among this group of seven.

And now he sees the truth of what I am.

I’m not that sweet.

I’m not that fun.

I’m a screwed-up mess just like everybody else who has a tornado of troubles swirling just underneath the surface, ready to let loose.

I’m not, after all, a reliable good time.

And that was all I had to give.

“Nash Eyre!” a woman exclaims from a distance, announcing her arrival twenty feet off. Her hair is pulled up in tight, perfect silvery-white curls around her face to match her tight, perfectly wrinkle-free suit dress. Her knees march in tight rhythm (unsurprising, given the suit looks like it’s cellophaned to her body) as she ticks her way toward Nash in rhythm with the clock hanging on the wall behind. “I’m Melody Carlton,” she says, stretching out her hand. She smiles brightly. “Your moderator for the group panel.”

I pull away from him in the fraction of time he’s turned his attention away from me and reach for my purse.

Now’s the time to make a break for it.

I can already see how it’s going to play out.

Of course, Nash will be a gentleman about it.

He’s going to step back politely. Give me the distance I’m “asking” for. A distance I’m saying I want but don’t really.

We’ll move to polite niceties.

We’ll be the kind of “friends” Ricky and Jackie are, polite but without substance.

The kind of friends who hold the elevator for each other but don’t invite them inside.

The woman, Melody, tackles Nash with questions while I pull my purse over my shoulder and set down my coffee cup. One last hot sip of caffeine sizzles on my tongue (fitting, for how it’s betrayed me) as I lock eyes on the exit doors.

I’m not sure where I’ll go.

I can’t go back to the room.

Not . . . not after everything.

For that matter, I can’t bring myself to go down that hall again.

Everything about it feels cursed.

I’ll go toward the light.

I’ll find my way to the upper deck, the sunlight, and wander around aimlessly until it’s time to get sound on everyone’s microphones for their panels, make sure everyone is set up securely, and then in between sessions, find time to interview each in turn.

Anxiety rises in my stomach as I take a first step for the door.

Wasn’t I the one to say to be smart, to move in pairs?

Wasn’t I the one to volunteer myself to interview everyone?