Page 23 of Saving Sophia

“Sort of.” How much could I tell her? The less she knew the better.

“Well then.” She dropped her voice into her breathy imitation of Amber Jade. “I want details. I want you to get on your knees, wearing nothing but cherry red lipstick, and blow his … mmmmind.” She dragged the word out in an exaggerated humming. “That’s an order.”

I laughed away some of the painful avocado lump. At least Callie was consistent. I was really going to miss her.

* * *

Later that morning, we returned to the apartment to gather my things. I looked over the wreckage of my bedroom. Broken glass glittered in the miserable, brown carpet. The nightstand tipped over, everything covered in white dust—for fingerprints, I guessed. My body shook. I dropped my head, closing my eyes to combat the sudden dizziness threatening to take over. I’d almost gotten killed here. In the same room I painted my toenails and read romance books and doctored my dolls. I once read a book where ghosts stayed confined to the place they died, and if that were true, I’d almost been doomed to haunt a cheap two-bedroom L.A. apartment.

“We can have the rest of your things shipped,” Ethan said, his voice like a solid oak tree in the chaos of my thoughts. He gently took some chunks of broken glass out of my hands. “Mrs. Helmsley’s unicorn?”

I hadn’t even realized I’d picked them up.

“It was a gift,” I said sadly. “She was my reading teacher when I was a kid.” I walked over to the closet, refusing to look at the door hanging from one hinge. I pulled out an old, boxy suitcase and laid it open on the bed.

“These are exquisite.”

He was standing in front of my dresser, looking at the row of dolls carefully posed in stands across the top. “Were these … Barbies?”

“Oh, they’re nothing,” I answered, grabbing clothes and tossing them into the suitcase. I’d already embarrassed myself in so many ways. How could I explain that I rescued old, broken fashion dolls, imagining my room to be a doll hospital, and me a magical doctor who gave them new lives as fairies and sprites and whatever else they might whisper to me?

I walked into the bathroom I shared with Callie. The police hadn’t disturbed much in here. I’d been getting ready for bed when the moon-faced man came in, but he grabbed me after I left the bathroom. I packed my hairbrush, deodorant, and makeup bag. Was the sum total of my belongings really this small? The toiletries strewn across the counter all belonged to Callie. A gold faceted tube of lipstick caught my eye.

I opened it and twisted up the shocking red matte stick. I never wore anything that bold. I stared at it and at myself in the mirror. What had she said?

Get on your knees, wearing nothing but cherry red lipstick …

“—beautiful on you.”

I jumped. Ethan was standing in the bathroom doorway, holding a picture frame in his hands. His eyes found mine in the mirror and held me. My breath stopped. I tried desperately to look like I hadn’t been thinking about … wearing lipstick for him.

“It’s the only thing salvageable from the nightstand.” His lips twisted apologetically as he held the photo up. The picture was of me and Callie, smiling together in front of a frozen yogurt stand. “But I’m glad. You look happy. Happy looks beautiful on you.”

“Oh,” I said.

Say something else, say anything. Anything would be better than ‘oh’.

“Banana bread Froyo.”

Anything but that.

His chuckle wrapped around me like a hug. “I’m learning you have interesting tastes in food.” He set the photo on the counter and turned to leave. As he did, he pointed at the extended red lipstick. “A happy color.”

When he was gone, I twisted the lipstick back down and shoved it in my makeup bag, certain Callie would approve. A strange bolt of confidence shot through me. Maybe the universe was offering me a gift, a wonderful, sexy man gift, to make up for the mess it had made of my life. I could do this. I could escape Mr. Roscoe. I could wear red lipstick. I could redefine myself. This plot twist gave me an opportunity if I could only embrace my plucky heroine and take it.

8

ETHAN

“Holy cow!” She placed her hands on the dash of the Range Rover and craned her neck as we drove under the rusted metal arch declaring:

Woodland Ridge Resort

“It’s like a fairytale,” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as the three main buildings came into view, interconnected by a series of wooden stairs. “Like an enchanted forest castle.”

I followed her gaze. Mt. Tahoma Lodge House, the welcome center and largest of the hotel buildings, nestled into the crook of the mountain, cloaked in evergreen. Its aged red cedar structure held both rich history and future promise. The connected buildings, Summit Lodge House and Promise Point Lodge House, extended out on either side, each stretching up four stories and boasting rounded stone towers complete with turrets. They needed a ton of work but did create kind of a forest castle vibe.

“Perfect for a princess,” I said as I pulled the car into the worn asphalt lot adjacent to the front entrance and put it in park. Her hand reached up to clutch at the little gold locket she wore around her neck. I wasn’t sure if she was even aware of the gesture, but when her fingers touched it, a guarded shadow crossed her face.

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