Page 103 of Make Me Scream

“Thanks.”

I wish I believed it as much as he does.

“We know whatever was going on between Porter and Mundell, it didn’t have anything to do with any of us,” Martin adds.

“Exactly.” Joel says.

We finish breakfast and I volunteer to clean up so they can head out. I don’t want to miss the show or dinner, but I have no idea how I’m going to get into a truly good mood by then. Maybe if Lane called and begged for forgiveness… Would that be enough? Am I a sucker for wanting him to make things right? He knew what he was doing last night — he knew how upset I’d be and he did it anyway. And what did he accomplish? Nothing.

He ought to spend at least a few days contemplating how badly he fucked up. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. I know myself well enough to admit that I’ll forgive Lane in time, especially if he makes a convincing apology — but I can’t let it happen immediately. He’s going to have to wait a bit.

Yet, when my phone rings, I practically drop the frying pan as I run to answer.

It’s not Lane calling, though. The caller ID saysMundell Academy.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ms. Carpenter. This is Rush Mundell. I was hoping to speak with you about last night, and hopefully make an agreement about your future at my school.”

My hand tightens around the phone.

“I thought the terms were already clear.”

“Yes, well… I admit I’ve erred. Mr. Franklin spoke very highly of you in your absence, and you comported yourself well in that unfortunate encounter. I feel indebted to you for your part in deescalating the situation. Would you be willing to meet up to discuss this further? How about at Union Square, by the Washington statue?”

“You mean now?”

“If it’s convenient, yes.”

Huh. This sounds promising, I guess. If Joel talked me up to Mundell, and Mundell is high on Joel’s success, it makes sense he’d want to keep Joel happy, and appeasing me would go a long way.

A walk wouldn’t be so bad. And maybe I could do a little shopping of my own afterward.

“Yeah, okay. I can be there in an hour.”

“Lovely. I’ll see you then.”

—

I take my time showering and dressing up; I want to look presentable, in part for Mundell but also in case I wind up seeing the show. I find a cute white button-down top with an ankle-length patterned skirt, then head out.

Heavy foot traffic makes it hard to pick a single person out of the crowd at Union Square Park. A pretty good saxophone player wails away, drawing a circle of tourists to listen. Vendors with folding tables sell purses, flowers and pre-rolled joints while cops stand around chatting and ignoring jaywalkers. It’s sunny and windy, carrying the scent of roasting chestnuts.

“Over here, Ms. Carpenter!” Mundell calls, waving at me from the other side of George Washington’s statue, and we both move toward one another.

“Thank you for coming out,” he says when we arrive. “How was the rest of your night?”

“Fine. How was the rest of the exhibition, and the party?”

Mundell laughs.

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Franklin already told you, we sold all of his pieces. I’m proud of him beyond words.”

I smile, nodding.

“Me too.”

“As for the party, I didn’t go. I’m a little too old to revel until the break of dawn. But that’s okay. Once Lane left, the gallery didn’t dwell on the disturbance. Everyone was enthralled by Mr. Franklin’s work.”

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