“All right, Ma,” Andrew murmurs, and I push him back, laughing.
The doorbell rings, and Jane jumps up. “That’s the sitter. I’ve got a meeting with my agent today. Maybe it’s about a job.”
When she leaves to let Sasha, an older woman who lives downstairs, in the apartment, Andrew follows me out into the hallway.
“Emmy, look, I can drop out of school. NYU isn’t going anywhere.”
He must have heard us talking.
I cross my arms, drawing an obstinate line. “I went to college, Jane had acting lessons, and you’ll get your turn. Plus, you help out with Londyn.” He watches her at night if neither Jane nor I are here.
“What about a school loan?”
“You’re only nineteen,” I insist. “School debt like that will follow you the rest of your life.”
“I’ll quit.”
“No, Andrew, stop saying that. You’ve dreamed of NYU for years.”
He sighs, his face uncertain. “You had heart surgery, then picked back up with two jobs. It makes me feel like shit.”
“It was minor surgery.”
“No, it wasn’t. You could have died, Emmy. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever been through.”
“Oh, sweetie. People as young as me rarely die of A-fib. I’m going to be fine.”
Atrial fibrillation is a rhythm disorder caused by irregular heartbeats in the upper chambers. When the too-fast pounding in my chest and shortness of breath started a few years ago, I thought it was just panic attacks or PTSD from my childhood. It wasn’t. After getting an official diagnosis, I tried meds, which worked for a while, but then I stopped. What followed was me at the bookstore doing my job, when my heart started pounding out of control, as if I’d run a marathon. I tried to breathe slowly and soothe myself like I’d been taught, but nothing worked. My chest wouldn’t stop roaring like a train. My head swam, and I stumbled into a bookshelf and passed out. They rushed me to the doctor, and a week later, I underwent mini-maze surgery.
I give him a fierce hug, tell him that everything will be okay, then shoo him out the door. Later, I go to my room and sprawl out on the bed and rub my face.
Yes, I’m running out of options when it comes to keeping the apartment, but at the top of my worries is the fact that I stole a car.
Every time the doorbell rings, I imagine it’s the cops. Yesterday, I was alone when someone knocked on the door, and I forced myself to look through the peephole. I expected NYPD, but it was the neighbor downstairs selling cookies for her school. I was so thankful that I bought ten boxes.
I chew on my lips. Yes, I gave Andrew valid reasons for not filing a report against Kian, but I’m also scared that going to the police station will only end up in me being arrested for theft; then I’ll be sent to rot in some desert prison in Arizona. I’ll never get to see my family.
Last night, my dreams featured me in a cell in the middle of the desert, naked and freezing as I slept on the bunk. Millions of scorpions crawled on the floor, up the walls, and over my face. That’s when I woke up, screaming, as I tossed covers in every direction to fight imaginary scorpions.
Obviously, my meandering subconsciousness worries for my future as well, and if dreams come true, I’m screwed.
Chapter 5
EMMY
After showering, I blow out my hair and arrange the strands into a sleek bun on top. The air-conditioning isn’t great, so I have a fan pointed toward the bathroom to keep me cool. From the closet, I grab a black shirt with a corseted lace bodice and pair it with a layered long tulle skirt cut into strips. Louboutins that Jane bought me are on my feet.
I give myself a pep talk. I’ve got enough in savings to get us through the year. Jane’s modeling will pick up. Andrew will finish this semester soon.
Half an hour later, I’m on Fifth Avenue, headed to work, when my neck prickles, a malicious tingling that skates down my spine. I toss an anxious glance over my shoulder. There’s only a hundred or so people milling around, but I don’t see Kian’s head towering above them. Still, I can’t help but think someone is watching me.
I brush it off as I arrive outside A Likely Story and linger at the large window display, featuring two mannequins, a woman and a man. She’s standing in a floor-length empire-waist dress, and he’s in a replica early nineteenth-century suit. He’s down on one knee holding a book up to her in the palm of his hand. A sparkling diamond （fake） sits atop the book, Jane Austen’s Emma. Fluffy clouds, angelic cupids, and white doves dangle from the ceiling with wire. It took weeks to put that together, and it’s freaking glorious.