Page 43 of Escape Girl

She nodded, her brown eyes serious and unexpectedly sympathetic. “OK.”

She didn’t say anything else, and her purposeful silence told me that she was not going to ask the obvious follow-up question.

Why? Why then, Emily?

The question had followed me since March like a constant hangover. Everyone wanted to know: my father, Bobby himself, anyone who knew that I was separated.Why did you leave?

To anyone who was bold enough to ask, I offered the same explanation I’d given Bella. I compared our whirlwind romance to a vacation fling. Something that bloomed unexpectedly, something wild and beautiful but short-lived. Something that wasn’t able to thrive when we returned to the real world.

I wasn’t lying when I told Bobby that I left because I couldn’t handle both my career and my marriage. I truly couldn’t. After our wedding, I’d gone back to work. And I’d fallen completely apart. I walked around the world constantly holding back tears. I bit the heads off of everyone around me on an hourly basis. My sleep schedule went from problematic to catastrophic.

I know it didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t explain it any better—not even to myself.

If I couldn’t explain it to myself, how was I supposed to explain to anyone else? Maybe it was because Jo didn’t ask that I actually tried to answer in a more visceral way than I’d ever expressed before.

“I left because I was miserable,” I whispered.

That was true. But it wasn’t an actual reason. It only led to more of that same question.

Why? Why? Why?

Heather let out a distressed murmur, and Sloan threw a box of tissues in my lap.Oh.I raised trembling hands to my cheeks; my face was soaking wet. Embarrassment swept over my entire body and settled, like a heated blanket. I’d intended to come in here and pound my fists and feel powerful. Now look at me. Shaking with silent tears in front of a group of strangers. Worse than plain strangers, actually. They were friends of Bobby.

At least I’d gotten some puzzle pieces. Jo must have forged the connection between us because she was now inextricably linked with Bobby. He worked for her, and she was marrying his brother. Her end game remained mysterious, but the sudden burst of tears had dampened my angry, investigative spirit. Now I just wanted to go back to my hotel room and climb under the covers. Hide from my shame and forget this encounter had ever happened.

“You know what I think?” Jo said suddenly. “We’re all going to take the rest of the day off of work and do something fun with Emily instead.”

What? Oh God no. I didn’t need a pity party thrown for me. Especially not here and now. Not by them.

“Hell yes!” Sloan whooped. Heather clapped her hands together, and Andie jumped to her feet.

“No,” I protested. “That’s not—I mean—”

“Oh come on!” Sloan said. “When was the last time you were in Chicago?”

“We could do a whole Ferris Bueller day,” Andie squeaked. “The Art Institute? Sears Tower? Millennium Park?”

Heather took over. “Michigan Avenue? Wrigley Field? Navy Pier?”

Jo was calmer than her team but just as insistent. “Surely there’s something you wanted to do in town this week besides work?”

My hand went to my head. “I did want to get my hair done,” I admitted. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt stupid. What was wrong with me? If I wasn’t going to run out of here to be by myself, why wouldn’t I just go along with one of their touristy ideas? Why would I make such an inane suggestion?

Strangely, the girls didn’t seem to find it boring at all. “Ooh, a makeover!” Sloan and Heather grinned at one another. “Awesome.”

Before I could object—I just needed my roots touched up, not aPretty Womanmontage—Jo said, “I know a great salon.”

Half hour later, all five of us were seated in a boutique salon a few blocks from their office. Andie and Sloan were across the room, feet bare, ready for pedicures. Heather was getting her hair washed in preparation for a trim. Jo sat in the chair next to me. We were both waiting for our assigned stylists to finish with their last customers. Jo was going to get a blow-out. “I’m excited,” she confided. “Jamie never sees me with my hair done. It’s always bedhead or in a braid.”

I looked at her through the mirror. Somehow, it was easier than looking directly at her face. “I can’t believe you’re engaged to Jamie,” I marveled. I hadn’t had the time to become close to Bobby’s brother, but he always seemed a little starchy. Not the type of guy who would ever fall for a con artist, even a reformed one.

Of course… “I really can’t believe you were once engaged to my father.”

I’d meant it as a statement of incredulity, not judgment, but a shadow passed over her face. “I know,” she said quietly. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I was in a difficult place, and I made poor choices. I was a different version of myself back then.” She sighed. “A worse version.”

A salon is a confessional place. Any hairdresser can tell you that. Maybe it’s the soothing sounds of rushing water, the cleanscent of shampoo, the comfort of the head message. Maybe it’s the anticipation of knowing you’ll leave the building looking better than you did when you walked in.

Whatever the reason, I found myself talking. “I’ve been a different version of myself too.” I swallowed. “Six years ago, maybe. But I think it was a better version.”

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