Page 17 of Not a Perfect Save

Her lips twist, and she cuts me a glare as if my very existence is responsible for the weather. “Fine,” she mutters.

I hold the door open and watch as she scrambles into the back seat before jumping in after her.

We drive the entire distance from the Bronx to the Lower East Side with only the early afternoon hum of New York traffic for company.

“I owe you.” Ella’s eyes are on her lap, her hands fiddling with her dress.

“For what?”

“Saving me from my parents.”

“Oh. They weren’t so bad.” I was a little embarrassed by the way her sister and her fiancé fawned over me, but Ella’s parents genuinely seem to care about her.

“They’re suffocating.”

“You’d really have stayed at the hospital instead of going home with them? Were you afraid they’d chain you up?”

“They’d mummify me, more likely,” she mumbles. “I was a sick kid— seizures and breathing issues from as early as I can remember, pneumonia when I was seven. I hate hospitals.”

“But you hate your parents more?”

“Of course not!” Ella looks horrified at my words. “It’s just that they hovered long after I outgrew everything. Even now they’re constantly checking up on me, trying to give me money. For goodness sake, they still keep me on their phone plan, even though I’ve been able to take care of myself for a long time now.”

I want to probe further, but she’s closed off, arms crossed tightly around her, eyes closed in pain, so I refrain. For the moment, at least.

* * *

Givenwhat I’ve discovered about Ella’s parents’ wealth, I’m shocked when we pull up to a walkup in the Lower East Side. It’s little more than a run-down tenement, incongruous between the gentrified buildings on either side.

Before I can round the car to help her out, she’s already hobbled to the entrance, keys in hand. I rush in behind her before the door can slam in my face and am confronted by the stench of pot and dust. My face screws up tight to keep from sneezing. Ella is breathing hard. She has one hand on the banister but has yet to take a single step up the stairs.

“For fuck’s sake.” I scoop her up into my arms, bridal-style.

“Put me down!” she screams, even as she grabs onto my shoulders.

“What about your leg?”

“Myleg? What aboutyourleg?”

I do feel a slight twinge, but it’s nothing to worry about. “It’s fine. Stop squirming, or I’ll drop you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I dip, and she squeals and tightens her grip around my neck.

“There’s no way you’ll make it up there on your own.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “Now, grab your crutch and tell me, where to?”

Of course, she lives on the top floor. It’s a feat of acrobatics to carry her safely up the narrow steps, navigating each bend with care. “And you complained aboutmysteps.” Not that it’s much of an effort, she’s very light, but it gives me perverse joy to keep ribbing her.

“Shut it, Boy Scout, this was your idea.”

My lips quirk. When we’re outside her apartment I set Ella down, mindful of her ankle, and watch as she fumbles in her bag for her keys before unlocking the door. I follow her inside, watching as she punches in a code to disarm the security system. It’s a state-of-the-art model. I know, because I have the same one. But here, the high-tech panel is out of place beside a yellowed, painted-over light-switch, with its casement cracked on one side. She catches me looking. “My parents had me install it. One more condition for moving out.”

“Smart folks.”

Her lips twist, but she says nothing.

A life-sized mannequin topped with a curly brown wig grabs my attention. It’s in a strapless blue dress with hands positioned in a beggar’s pose. A half-full bag of Lay’s potato chips sits on its open palms, a pin threaded through the flap to keep it folded shut.

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