Page 121 of 10 Days to Ruin

“It’s notthatbad,” I protest.

“No, you’re right,” she agrees. “It’s worse. Tell me something: When’s the last time you filed a real story?”

“It’s not my fault John keeps assigning me puff pieces!”

“Itisyour fault that you stopped asking for hard leads, though.” Gina tenderly brushes a lock of hair that’s escaped from my bun. “I just hate to see you losing yourself to something you swore you never wanted in the first place. I’m happy you’re happy, I am. I just… I just want to know that you know what you’re doing.”

Yeah fucking right.I haven’t known what I’m doing since the beginning.Run, kicking and screaming; bite and claw if necessary—that’s pretty much been the extent of a plan. Is it any wonder I ended up here when “borrow from Lora’s bag of tricks” was the best tactic I could come up with?

“Maybe I don’t, Gina. Maybe this was hopeless from the start.”

“I knowthat Ariel Ward is not talking like that. My girl is afighter.Not a quitter. And look, I’m not even saying you have to turn your back on him forever. It’s just, like—knowledge is power, y’know? And I don’t think you really know him yet. Like,know himknow him.” She purses her lips. “We don’t have to throw the baby out with the bathwater. I say you test him.”

I’m about to say,Isn’t that what we’ve been doing,but before I can, she presses a finger to my lips. “Test the man behind the mask, Ariel. You want to know if there’s a soul attached to that dick, and I don’t blame you. So take him somewhere that’ll give you a thumbs up or a thumbs down. What’s he made of? Who is hereally?Don’t let your rose-colored glasses fool you. Maybe you like what you see and you end up riding into the sunset with this prince among men. Or…” She sighs and fixes me with one of her rarest, hardest looks. “Or maybe not.”

She leaves it at that. We yap for a little while about what’s going on in her life and at the office. Lighter fare, a palate cleanser. Then I get dressed—with her help, like I’m some Victorian lady who needs help zipping her own slacks—and we take the subway into work together.

She has a meeting, so we part ways with a promise to meet up for lunch. But on the journey to my desk, something catches my eye.

I stop in front of the community bulletin board. It’s a riot of ads and flyers for yoga classes and lost cats. My real target is stuck in the bottom corner: a sun-bleached pamphlet for Safe Harbor Women’s Shelter.

I’m reaching for it when Lora emerges from the supply closet behind me, arms piled high with reams of printer paper. I immediately change course and pluck a “private investigator for hire” flyer instead.Private Dick Will Do the Trick!it screams in bright green font.

Double entendres and questionable copywriting choices aside, it’s not exactly thenothing to see hereselection I was hoping for, in terms of making Lora keep going on her merry way. Sure enough, she pauses at my side.

“Oh, no! Did you lose something?” she asks.

“Er… no. Well, kind of. I’m…” Sighing, I pin P.I. Richard’s flyer back to the board and point at what I was really interested in. “Have you ever heard of this place? Safe Harbor?”

I’m ready for any of the classic Lora responses.Safe Harbor—is that, like, a boating club?orShouldn’tallwomen have shelter? Isn’t that in the Constitution?

What I’m less prepared for is how her face suddenly freezes. Her ever-present smile dies. “Yeah, I know it,” she murmurs, which is probably the shortest and coldest sentence I’ve ever heard from her.

I’m surprised. I turn to face her, still jarred by how wrong that frown looks on her. This is glitter-snow-globe Lora, it’s-always-sunny Lora. It’s a crime against humanity for her not to giggle between every inhale and exhale.

She fidgets in place, her gaze dropping to the floor. “When I was… Like, for a little while, my mom and I lived there. While my daddy was… not being very nice. ‘Too much beer’ is the short version of the story.”

It’s funny how one little thing can change your whole view of a person. I suddenly feel hideously guilty for ever judging her, for ever laughing at her.You’re a bitch,blares a voice in my head. It’s not wrong.

I can see right here in my mind’s eye her whole life, laid out like a completed puzzle. Wanting love,beggingfor love, and getting doors slammed in her face again and again.

No wonder she wants it so badly now.

No wonder we all do.

“Anyway,” she says with a sniffle, “it’s a nice place. There are a lot of really lovely women who work there. Why? Were you thinking of volunteering?”

“Kind of, actually, yeah.” Gina’s questions from this morning echo in my head again.What’s he made of? Who is he really?

This is one way to find out.

39

ARIEL

Am I a bad person?

That’s the question I’m asking myself over and over again as I stand outside on the sidewalk, waiting for Sasha. I’ve paced the same ten-foot stretch repeatedly to keep the circulation going in my fingers and toes. But the panicked thumping of my heart is doing plenty to keep the blood moving elsewhere.

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