The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (5 page)

Before I could get my keys in the ignition, my phone chirped with a text message.
 

Pedi emerg meet me now

Kat. Everything was always an emergency with my best friend. I picked up my phone to respond, but before I could, another text came through.

U R coming! My $$

I laughed because she knew exactly what my protest would be. Sure, I liked soft soles as much as the next girl, but I couldn’t justify spending forty dollars on them. Especially since I was apparently in such a tight financial situation I needed a roommate. I picked up my phone and tapped a reply.

Coming. C U in 10

***

I made it to Kat’s favorite nail place in just over ten minutes since I stopped for lattes on the way. I figured if she was going to treat my toes, I’d treat her with a skinny vanilla. I pushed backward through the glass door, and was greeted by the shop owner, who directed me into the back part of the salon where Kat was already soaking her feet in the fancy glass tub.
 

“Oh, thank God you made it,” she said. “I need to choose.” She held up two bottles: one hot pink, one a glittery purple.

“What are they called?” I always chose my polish based on the cute names on the bottom of the bottles. “Here.” I handed her a cup and took my seat next to her.
 

“You’re a doll,” Kat said, and took a sip. She licked her lips and went back to the polish problem. “This one’s Pump Up The Jam.” She held up the glittery purple bottle.

“As in, toe jam?” I grabbed a bright blue bottle and admired the fun color. With a sigh, I put it down and picked up a pink shade on the tray next to me, flipped it over, approved, and handed it to the nail technician.

“Eww, Whitney. No. As in jam. Like jelly.”
 

“Still. What’s the other one?”

Kat flipped over the bright pink bottle. “Bazinga Berry.”
 

We looked at each other and laughed. “Bazinga Berry,” we said together.

Kat handed the bottle to her esthetician, who was looking at us as if we might need therapy. “What did you pick?”
 

I cringed and hope she wouldn’t notice. Of course she did. Kat noticed everything. “Pretty in Pink,” I said, and looked away.

“Oh no!” Kat half stood in her bowl of water and reached for the bottle of pink polish. A wave of scented suds cascaded over the side of the bowl and onto her nail tech’s lap.

“No standing in the bowl,” the tech chastised her.
 

Kat ignored her and waved my bottle of pastel pink polish around. “You have to be kidding me, Whit. What’s with the wussy pink? It’s so boring. And the name? Ugh.”
 

I reached over and snatched the bottle out of her hand. “It’s not boring, it’s pretty.”
 

“If you’re eight,” Kat said. She fell back against her chair. “Or don’t ever want to have sex again.”

“I don’t really think the color of my toenails has anything to do with my sex life,” I said. “I’m just trying a more conservative look. I can’t wear open-toed sandals to work if I have Blue My Mind or Screaming O on my toes. It’s not professional.”

I didn’t bother looking because I knew Kat would be rolling her eyes or giving me one of her what-is-wrong-with-you looks, and I didn’t want to deal with it. Not everyone could get away with a spiky platinum blond haircut fringed with hot pink at the workplace. Kat pulled off the look, but only because she was an agent for up-and-coming musicians and actors. For her, dressing funky and a little bit wild helped at work. I’m pretty sure I’d look like a ten-year-old dressed up for Halloween if I tried it.

“Well,” Kat said after a minute, “I think any job where you have to censor your toe color isn’t worth having. That snotty private school isn’t worth it, Whit. I heard that they do a lifestyle questionnaire to make sure your personal life meets their standards. Isn’t that ridiculous? As if they should have any say in what you do with your life as long as you’re doing your job well.”

I had heard about the questionnaire, but I’d assumed it was just a rumor. “I don’t think that’s—”

“Or maybe you don’t care about having sex again.” Kat was still talking. “It’s that guy you’re seeing, isn’t it? No good in bed?”

“Kat!”

“He does look kind of boring,” she mused. “But sometimes it’s the quiet, straitlaced ones who are the most adventurous in bed.” She examined me for a minute, and then added, “Nah, I don’t think so. You’d be way happier right now if he was wild in the sack.”

I smacked her lightly on the arm and took a sip of my coffee. William might not be the most exciting lover, but he was a good guy. Stable, secure and…things had been a little dull in bed. I sighed and changed the subject. “So, what’s the emergency? Just a toe chip, or something else?”

Kat was always having an emergency of some kind. She lived life at full speed, and threw herself completely into everything she did. That passion and energy proved successful for her as a talent agent, but it was a little more problematic when it came to her dating life. Kat insisted she liked the carefree lifestyle of a different guy every week, various friends with benefits, and no relationship that lasted longer than three months. But whenever things ended with anyone she liked more then she let on, Kat called an emergency meeting. Which actually worked in favor for my toes.
 

“I needed a polish change. I was sick of that other color,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “What was it again?”

“I’m Not Really A Waitress,” I supplied the name of the last bright pink polish she’d had.

“Right. I was sick of it.”

We both looked down to where her nail tech was applying a coat of fuchsia on her toes. A very similar fuchsia to the one she’d just had. I shook my head, took another sip of my latte and said, “You know, Kat. It’s okay to have a relationship with someone.”

She spun so quickly I was impressed the nail tech didn’t paint her entire foot. “I don’t want a relationship,” Kat insisted. “I was done with him.”

“What was his name again?” I tried to keep track, I really did, but it was exhausting sometimes.
 

“Brice.”

“Right, Brice. So what happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Kat picked up her cell phone and started flicking through screens. I waited. “He talked with food in his mouth,” she said, dropping her phone to her lap. “I couldn’t stand having dinner with him. It was disgusting. I mean, I don’t want to see what he’s eating. And little bits of food would fall out and Lord knows what was spraying across the table into my drink. How is it that someone so successful and so damn good-looking could go their entire life and not realize how gross their eating habits are?”

I shrugged. Brice was hot.

“So I ended it,” Kat continued. “We went to Blow Fish for sushi last night and he was telling me about his day but I couldn’t focus because all I could see were bits of mashed up tuna sashimi in his mouth. It was revolting. So I broke up with him.”

“At dinner?”

“Yup. And that sucked, too, because they have the best California rolls there. But I couldn’t stand it, Whit. I couldn’t.”

“I get that.” I tried not to laugh because I could tell she was actually upset. Brice must have had some good things going for him, besides his body of course, for Kat to be worked up over him.
 

The polish finished on our toes, we were led to the drying table where Kat and I obediently stuck our feet under the fan. Apparently a change in venue meant a change in topic. “So what’s going on with you?” Kat asked, once we were settled. “Please tell me there’s something more exciting than little Willy going on in your life.”

I ignored the boyfriend jab. It was a lost cause trying to convince Kat that I was attracted to respectable, solid, and steady men. The exact opposite of her. “Well,” I said, “it looks like I’m getting a roommate. Not that I’m happy about it. But Grams insisted and she does have a point, I can’t afford all the bills on my own. Not until I get the contract job. So, I guess I’ll have to deal with someone in my space leaving smelly socks around and farting in the living room.”

“Wait. What kind of roommate are you getting?”

“The worst kind,” I said. “A male one.” To be fair, I didn’t actually know if Reid was going to leave his socks lying around, or if they even were smelly, and he didn’t really seem like the type of guy to stink up the living room with body odor either. But, I couldn’t be sure, and frankly, it seemed likely that was what all men did.

“A man?” Kat perked up and leaned across the table. “What kind of man?”

“A stinky one, probably.”
 

“Whit, not all men are stinky. I keep forgetting you never had a brother.”

“Or a father.”

“Right,” she said. “But honestly, it probably won’t be so bad. Tell me, what’s he like? How does Grams know him and why on earth would she decide he needed to be your roommate?”

“His name is Reid. He’s probably mid to late twenties. I have no idea what he’s like.” Liar, I thought to myself. I did too know what he was like. He was funny, witty, and cute, but I didn’t need to tell Kat that. “And I have no idea why Grams decided he needed to share his space with me all of a sudden. He volunteers at Blissful Orchards singing songs and she took a liking to him.”

“He sings songs to seniors?” Kat raised her eyebrow. “That’s a little goody-goody, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s sweet.” I looked down so she wouldn’t be able to see my face.
 

“Wait a minute…” Crap. Too late. “He’s cute,” Kat said. “Isn’t he?”
 

I shrugged and looked up. “Maybe a little.”

Kat tapped her fingernails on the table top and gave me a wicked grin. “Oh, Whitney, I have a feeling this roommate of yours is going to be very interesting.”

I tried not to groan, because the more I thought about it, the more I thought she might be right.
 

Patty-November 1986

Patty

November 1986

The baby was crying. Again. Patty flipped over and looked at the bedside clock: 1:30.

It wasn’t long ago that she’d just be getting home at 1:30. And now it seemed impossibly late. She pulled the pillow back over her head for a moment—long enough to let out a scream of her own—before getting out of her warm bed, crossing the room and scooping the wailing baby out of her crib that sat in the corner of Patty’s childhood room.
 

“Ssh, Whitney,” she muttered into the baby’s ear. “It’s okay. Mommy’s here.” Patty bounced up and down the way her mom had shown her, careful to support the baby’s head. “Ssh,” she tried again. Still, the baby screamed.

She checked for a dirty diaper. Dry.
 

There was no way she could be hungry again. Hadn’t she just fed her? Less than an hour ago she’d sat in the rocker, both of them dosing off as Whitney finished a bottle.
 

“Come on, Whitney,” Patty pleaded with her. “Please stop crying.” She kept bouncing and paced around her room. Only two months had passed, but already Patty’s room was no longer her own. Sure, she still had the Kirk Cameron and Corey Haim posters pinned to the walls. And her shelves still held the childish porcelain dolls her mom used to buy her when she was a kid. But her dresser had been completely taken over. Her make-up and knickknacks replaced by diapers, wipes, creams, and diaper rash ointments. Patty had to clear out some of her drawers, stuffing her own clothes into plastic bags and throwing them in the back of the closet to make room for sleepers and tiny outfits. She’d even moved her desk into the hallway to make room for the crib.

Despite all the bouncing and walking, Whitney refused to stop shrieking. The sound was making it harder for Patty to concentrate or think a concrete thought. How could she be expected to think of a way to stop the crying, when she couldn’t even formulate a thought?
 

She went out into the dark hallway, but instead of taking the baby downstairs, Patty walked up and down the hallway, repeatedly passing her mother’s closed door. After what seemed like hours, but could have only been seconds, her mother’s door opened.
 

“Thank God.” Patty moved to hand her mother the screaming baby. “I don’t know what to do.”
 

Patty’s mother, Hazel, was a tiny woman, smaller even than Patty herself. But despite her physical size, Hazel was an imposing presence, especially with the glow of her bedside lamp illuminating her from behind. She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips.
 

“Mom. Take the baby. Please.” Patty thrust Whitney again toward her mother.
 

“Patricia,” her mother spoke slowly. “I told you, I would not be caring for this child. I’ll help you, but—”

“I need help. Now.” Tears pricked at Patty’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She wouldn’t cry in front of her mom. Patty looked down at the baby, who at that moment was a terrible shade of red. Tears were streaming down her pudgy cheeks, soaking the collar of her sleeper. “Mom. Please.”
 

“You need to learn how to do this on your own, Patricia.” She looked at her shrieking granddaughter, and for a moment Patty thought her mother might relent and take the baby from her arms. Instead, she asked, “Did you change her?”

“She’s dry.” Patty hefted Whitney over her shoulder and resumed bouncing.

“Hungry?”
 

“Just fed her.”

“Does she need to burp?”

As if the baby was waiting for someone competent to diagnose what was wrong, she chose that moment to burp and promptly spit-up—down Patty’s back.
 

“Oh, gross!” Patty lifted the baby, who was no longer crying, off her shoulder and held her out. She squirmed from side to side, trying in vain to get away from the wet, warm milk that was seeping through her sleep shirt.

“Patty, didn’t you burp her?”

“Of course I did,” Patty shot back. She’d changed Whitney’s diaper and settled into the chair to feed her. She’d dozed off and then…she’d woken up and put the baby in the crib. Damn it.