Page 8 of The Americana Playbook

“What?”she’d ask with a cough.“Is one cigarette really going to kill me? I’m ready to go anyway. My life, it’s exhausting, honey.”

What Honey meant was her kind of life was full. Full of adventure, like meeting the queen of England when her husband was the US ambassador to the United Kingdom or traveling to Saudi Arabia, India, and Pakistan. But her favorite time, she’d always say, was at home with us in Manhasset, where my sister and I lived while my father and mother were often in Washington, DC while he worked as a congressman and later, as a senator.

While most kids crave their mother’s hug after a nightmare, I always longed for the familiar scent of Chanel Number Five with the slightest hint of smoke cutting through.

Honey’s death was the catalyst to everything, my downfall, my banishment and punishment, the reason I’m standing exactly where I am, going by Clara Parker—Honey’s full maiden name—instead of the name I was born with—Parker Montgomery.

But I don’t blame Honey. I blame my parents, who would rather send me away—out of sight and out of mind—than take the time to help me with a loss I couldn’t manage to cope with.

I imagine, if there were a heaven—and Honey were allowed in—she’d be wearing her finest gown, smoking a cigarette, and drinking a Manhattan. If I ever got a chance to go there and find her, she’d look at me and ask,“Where have you been, honey?”

And I’m sure the next thing she’d say is,“How could you let them do that to you?”

* * *

Most twenty-nine-year-old women have a nighttime routine that includes retinol and a rich moisturizer. I’m not most twenty-nine-year-old women. My nighttime routine does include slapping on some moisturizer and brushing my teeth, but from there, things go differently, depending on the night.

On agoodnight, before I sleep, I check the front door by flipping the handle’s lock three times. And then I bolt it and repeat the process once or twice.

On a bad night, my brain yanks my body out of bed a dozen or more times. Those nights, I also check under the bed. But I’m not looking for the boogeyman, unless you consider the boogeyman someone my parents hired to kidnap me in the middle of the night when I was seventeen and take me—by force—across the state to a therapeutic boarding school.

Tonight, despite it having been a relativelygoodday, is abadnight.

My legs, tired from their mileage in heels during my shift, scream as I squat to look below the bed frame again. It’s irrational, I know. I’m very self-aware. But no one understands how deep the scars I carry are. They’ve cracked open my chest and allowed fear to seep into my veins, making me afraid to sleep at night after tough days. The thing is, I’m not scared of the things I might see when I close my eyes. I’m terrified of what—or whom—I’ll find when I wake up.

And so, I listen for the worst, like the heavy steps of grown men on the hardwood floors I refuse to cover with even the smallest of area rugs that might muffle their sounds, leaving me vulnerable, like the hallway runner outside my room in Captain’s Cottage. I often think if it hadn’t been there, maybe I would’ve heard them before they got to me. Maybe I would’ve had a chance to make it to my window and dash from it.

Shaking my head, as if it were that easy to rid myself of the intrusive thoughts, I finally crawl into bed where I silently sing my own lullaby.

You’re safe here.

You’re safer alone than with anyone else.

You’re—

“Out of your mind.” I groan before I get out of bed and head into what is the living room space of my studio.

I turn the TV on again. It’s after one in the morning, far past the time forGolden Girlsreruns, which leaves me flipping between infomercials and the news. I can’t afford whatever they’re selling, so I leave a local station on and fold my hands against a pillow, lying on them to avoid the scratchy fabric.

“And we’re looking at the New England Rebels coming after a 16-1 regular season, ready to take that trophy…”

A box beside the anchor appears, filled with footage of previous games.

When the camera pans in on Fitz’s face, I lose my breath. It goes somewhere else, back to a time and place with my favorite people.

“Oh, Parker,” I hear Honey say. “What on earth are you doing? Look how messy your hair is.”

I don’t bother stopping what I’m doing, even though I’m standing on a kitchen chair I pushed over to the pantry so I could reach the box of cookies. “Getting supplies.” I take down the tin box.

Honey isn’t like typical grandmothers. She never baked cookies. But she also never tells us we can’t have them either. I shake the metal container and groan, lifting the lid. The outside is a lie. The inside is filled with Honey’s matchbooks.

“Supplies?” She produces another metal tin. I can tell by the weight this one actually has cookies.

I jump down off the chair. “We’re running away.”

“Who iswe?”

“Fitz and me?—”

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