by Sasha Dawn
Chapter 31
Thursday, May 25
Rehearsal just let out, and McKenna, Brendon, and I are heading up the street for coffee. The weather has shifted and suddenly, in late May, we’re edging on eighty. That’s the way it is in Chicago. Sometimes you can get all four seasons in a week.
I’m still thinking about Dylan Thomas. And I remember Mom’s advice: reaching for someone is always a risk. Maybe things will work out, or maybe they won’t. It’s a fifty-fifty shot at happiness. But not reaching out at all gives me a one-hundred percent chance at being alone.
I pull out my phone and tap on the Lyrically icon. I’m going to take a chance. I’m going to invite Dylan to meet us at Counter Offer.
“Maddy!”
I look up from my phone see my father’s car parked outside the rehearsal hall: “Oh look,” Brendon says. “It’s Daddy Warbucks.”
My stomach twists a little. Not into MPE territory yet, though. I hold up a finger to delay my dad.
“How’s all that going?” McKenna asks.
“I haven’t seen him since we’ve been back from New York.” I guess it’s hard to tell your daughter she can’t spend extra time with her ailing mother, so Dad’s been leaving me alone.
Dad waves me in.
“I guess I should go talk to him.”
“You gonna be okay?” McKenna asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Can you give me just a minute?”
“We’ll wait,” Brendon says.
I approach my father’s limo and lean into the open window. “Yeah?”
“You doing okay? You’re not returning my texts.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well . . . I’ve got plans right now, so how about we do this another time.” Let’s see how he likes being brushed off.
“Where are you and your friends going? I can give you a lift. We can talk on the way.”
“I don’t really know what there is to say. You know my mother has cancer. You know it’s going to take every dime she has to fight it. But you’re still being a jerk in court.”
He closes his eyes briefly, shakes his head, like he can deny what I’ve said. “Maddy, I’m sorry about your mother, but she’s going to get through this. And at the end of the day, the law is still the law, and the laws are pretty clear. There are certain ways the system is run, and I have every right to due diligence, here. I don’t think you fully understand—”
“I understand that you’re trying to drag things out until she doesn’t have money to fight.”
“That’s an oversimplified version of what’s happening.” Dad leans out the window. “McKenna! Brendon! Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
My friends look to me. This is why I love them. They don’t make assumptions, they don’t take advantage, they wait to see what I want.
After a moment, I give them a nod and invite them to join us.
I know what Dad’s trying to do. He thinks I won’t air our dirty laundry with the Weekes twins right here. He’ll give me a wad of cash to cover our snacks and entertainment for the evening—so everyone will go on thinking he’s this amazing, generous guy—and he’ll expect me to forget about everything he’s doing to ruin Mom again.
I can’t blame him for trying. It’s worked in the past. But it won’t work this time.
The twins approach and follow me into the car.
“What’s this I hear about plans?” Dad asks. “Where are you going?”
“Counter Offer,” I say.
“Counter Offer it is,” Giorgio says. “Address?”
McKenna rattles it off.
“It’s a little café near the courthouse,” I say. “You know the courthouse, right, Dad? It’s where you’re filing continuances until my mother runs out of money.”
Brendon and McKenna are sharing an uncomfortable glance that says it all—this car isn’t big enough for this type of discussion.
I feel a rush of guilt. I shouldn’t have put them in this position. I didn’t consider how Brendon and McKenna would feel about witnessing the whole thing. I send an apologetic look in their direction; I’ll have to make it up to them.
“Maddy, this isn’t the time or place,” Dad says.
And just like that, my guilt is gone. “Now, of all times, is the time to be decent, Dad. You know my mother isn’t extravagant. She asked for more money for me. Not for her. We already sold everything and moved in with Nana Adie. She hasn’t had a lifetime of earning power like you have, because she was busy taking care of us, and now that she’s sick, she can’t work, she has practically no earning power, and you’re doing just fine. I think you’re selfish, if you want to know the truth.”
“We should really discuss this some other time—”
“You can’t even see how what you’re doing hurts me, Dad. It hurts me. And I guess it hurts Mom to see me hurt, so if that’s your goal, it’s accomplished. I mean, don’t you even care that my mother is battling cancer? Again? Are you going try to blame her for that too? Or do you just not give a shit?”
His jaw sets. “Giorgio, you can pull over up here and let the twins out.”
“You can’t just drop them on the side of the road,” I say.
“You insist on talking about private business,” Dad retorts. “You’re making our guests uncomfortable.”
“If they get out, I get out.”
There’s a long pause. “To Counter Offer, then,” Dad says.
It’s a small victory—the first I’ve won against my father. I’ve never challenged him this way before, and I’m not sure anyone talks to him the way I just did. I can’t quite believe it worked.
No one says another word until Giorgio pulls over at the café.
I get out of the car and watch it pull away.
“Wow,” McKenna says, putting an arm around me. “So that’s what a high-stakes negotiation with a top manager looks like.”
“I’m sorry you two had to hear all that.” I sigh. “I almost wish I hadn’t agreed to talk to him at all. It’s like it couldn’t have gone well unless I’d agreed with everything he said.”
Suddenly I can imagine what it must have been like divorcing him . . . and I get why Mom may have agreed to things she shouldn’t have agreed to. Played nice to avoid being on his bad side, even if she must have known he was going to turn on her in the end anyway. Maybe he hemmed her in, and she had no choice but to let him do it.
The afterburn of the realization settles in my gut, a little like the way I feel when I know an audition hasn’t gone well, like I wish I could rewind time and do something different.
There are going to be consequences for what I’ve done. But I have to get through to him somehow. I need to stand up for my mom . . . and myself.
“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” Brendon says, as if he can read my thoughts. “He’s your dad. He has to love you.”
I’m not so sure about that.
Chapter 32
I’m on the L, headed home. It’s crowded. There must be a ballgame of some sort today, or maybe one of Chicago’s famous summer fests is going on.
The crowd starts to thin the farther we travel from the Loop. I switch trains to cut across to Wicker Park.
No sooner do I sit down than I see a familiar figure—this time wearing dark gray. No one can convince me he isn’t the same man I’ve seen several times before.
He’s looking at me, but pretending not to see me.
My heart starts beating fast.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he lives in my neighborhood. He got off the train at my stop once before, when the Sophias were trying to finagle coffee with me at the Factory. He has every right to ride the L.
I click a picture and text it to Hayley with a one-word caption: scared.
If he’s just a patron riding the train at the same odd times I ride it, he’ll get off at my usual stop.
Or he could be getting off at my stop because I’m getting off at my stop, in which case . . .
I have no idea what to do if he’s actually stalki
ng me.
Frozen with fear, I stay glued to my seat, even as the train approaches the stop closest to our place.
The man watching me doesn’t budge. Which means he doesn’t live in my neighborhood.
Me: Last time he got off at my stop. He didn’t do that this time.
Hayley: Phew. So you’re good.
Me: No.
Me: I didn’t get off at my stop either.
Hayley: Are you sure it’s not related to Dylan Thomas?
I think about it. I did message Dylan on Lyrically and ask him to meet the Weekes twins and me. So I did tell him where I was going to be.
And he obviously knows where I live. If he’s a Chicago native—as he claims to be—it wouldn’t be too tough to figure out which trains I’d take to get home. Shit.
Me: Maybe you’re right.
Hayley: STOP TALKING TO HIM. PLEASE.
Me: That’s beside the point right now!
Me: I now have a long walk home if I get off at the next stop.
Me: What do I do if this guy follows me?
Hayley: Ella probably can’t meet you.
Me: No, she had treatment this afternoon.
Me: She’s probably sleeping.
Hayley: Call Dad?
I can’t do that, either. Not after our last interaction.
Me: I’m going to get off at Milwaukee and go to the Factory.
Hayley: Good plan.
Hayley: Stay around people.
Me: And I’m going to see if Ted can meet me.
I don’t want to make a call on the L, so I text.
Please, Ted. Please, please, please answer.
When my phone chimes with Ted’s text tone, I nearly cry with relief.
Ted: Be careful.
Ted: I’ll get there ASAP.
I gather my things and prepare to exit at Milwaukee.
Not surprisingly, the stranger rises, too.
I walk quickly down the stairs at the platform. He’s not far behind me . . . just a few, maybe five or so steps.
Now I’m practically jogging. I glance over my shoulder.
He’s walking in long strides at a clipped pace.
He is following me. There’s no other explanation.
I see the Factory up ahead.
He’s gaining on me.
All I have to do is cross the street—
Chapter 33
I allow myself to exhale as I step into the coffee shop.
Safe.
Someone’s onstage performing a poem. I keep an eye on the performer, even though my ears are ringing and I can’t really concentrate on anything he’s saying. Everyone’s underwater. I inch my way to the register to order something. I don’t want anything, per se, but I can’t just loiter until Ted shows up, so I get my usual mocha roast, and a chai with soymilk for Ted.
That’s good. It’ll look like I’m not alone.
I snag a seat not far from where I found the original origami moon.
I was here.
I try to fade into the woodwork. I want to be as anonymous as possible.
“Lainey?”
I flinch. But instantly, I feel my shoulders fall.
I throw my arms around Ted, and—I can’t help it—suddenly I’m crying and I just can’t stop.
As if Mom’s illness weren’t enough. As if the court case weren’t enough. “He’s following me.”
“Which one?” Ted brushes my hair from my forehead and kisses me there. “Guy in the gray cap?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Ted practically has to pry my hands off him, but he manages to do it. He runs a hand from the crown of my head to the base of my cheek. “You okay now?”
“I . . . yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m just so glad you’re here.” I don’t know if I’ve ever been as scared as I was on the short walk here. Worse than any burst of panic I’ve ever felt: a deep, all-consuming fear.
“Are you going to be okay if I go have a word with him?”
I don’t necessarily want him to leave me, but I take another deep breath. “I’m okay.”
Ted cuts his way through the crowd toward the guy who’s been stalking me. There aren’t enough chairs in this place today to hold all its patrons, so it’s not like Ted can simply corner the guy and sit him down.
I overhear: “Dylan Thomas, I presume?”
My would-be perpetrator backs against a thick structural column with flyers pinned to it. “Get lost, man.”
“Are you Dylan Thomas?”
I hear the man who was following me: “You have me confused with someone else.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve taken an interest in my daughter?”
Daughter.
Now a police officer is making his way over to Ted and the mystery man; Ted talks to him quietly.
The poet on stage finishes his performance, and the place erupts in the traditional finger snapping for a job well done.
I take a deep breath. The snapping sounds like raindrops on a tin roof. A calming timbre. A welcome, musical sound.
I close my eyes for a second, imagine my mother twirling and bourrée-ing in delicate little steps from one place to another.
And lyrics flash in my mind:
Run, run, run to the ends of the earth
Run in silent rage
To break you, they must catch you first
Upon an empty stage.
My eyes snap open.
I take in every detail of the room around me. I feel the room in my bones, in my nerves, in my teeth, like tiny grains of sand.
Oh. My. God.
I did it. I actually wrote lyrics.
I open the diary app on my phone and jot them down.
And just that quickly, the panic is gone.
I take a cleansing breath and look up. Ted’s on his way back to me. The police officer is leading the guy in gray toward the door.
“You won’t have any more trouble with that guy,” Ted says. “I called the cops right when I got your text. They’re going to need a statement from you, and we’ll file a report, but in the meantime, they’re asking him some questions.”
“Who was he?”
“No one important.” Ted picks up his tea, thanks me for it, and takes a sip. “Walk you home?”
“Thanks,” I say.
After a few strides, I have to ask: “Did he admit to being Dylan Thomas?”
“No.”
“Okay. Because . . . Ted? I sort of like Dylan Thomas. And I don’t want to believe he’s a bad guy. But if there’s any chance that guy was him . . .”
“Unfortunately, he might be.”
“I felt so at home with him.” My voice comes out small and wobbly. “He seemed to get me.”
Ted nods. “It’s easy through a screen. You don’t have to be real online. Plenty of predators know what to say to make sure you do like them. Then when you trust them, they pounce.”
I take deep breaths, fight back tears. “Did the guy tell you anything?”
“He said he was just doing his job.”
“Following me was his job? I didn’t realize stalker positions paid all that well.”
“Maybe he wasn’t a stalker. Maybe he was hired.”
“Hired? By Dylan?”
“Let’s let the police figure that out. Once we file a report, we’ll have the report number. We can check for updates.”
And to think I sought Dylan out. I pursued a relationship with him—for the sake of a song, but still. “God, I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot for trusting people.”
Sheesh. If I make twenty more terrible decisions about whom to trust, I’ll tie my mother’s record.
“I’m glad you texted,” Ted says. “Don’t hesitate, okay? Ever.”
“Thanks.”
We sip our beverages.
“Thanks for the tea,” Ted says.
“Thanks for calling me your daughter.”
“You heard that, huh? Well . . . I know I’m not your fa
ther. But I call ’em like I see ’em.” He tips his cup of tea to my cup of coffee.
“How’s Vinny?” I ask.
“He misses you.”
I look down at his shoes. Penny loafers. With nickels.
Predictable.
Dependable.
Whimsical.
Soooo nice.
“Ted?”
“Yeah?”
“We all miss you.”
Chapter 34
I open Lyrically to see that Dylan has been messaging on and off all day.
Dylan: What’s up?
Dylan: Madelaine?
Dylan: Anybody home??
Dylan: Is everything ok with your mom?
Dylan: Miss talking to you.
Part of me thinks I shouldn’t even reply. If there’s even a smidgen of a chance that he’s not really a teenage guy, and that he was the one following me, I should block him and never look back. But there’s a bigger part of me that wants to know for sure that it was him before taking action.
It’s like what happened in New York. Dad just made an assumption about Brendon and me and ran with it. It felt awful.
Me: Do you have something to tell me?
There’s a long pause. The ellipses appears, showing me he’s writing, but after a minute it stops. I hold my breath.
Me: Are you who you say you are?
Me: Why won’t you answer?
Me: Do you know where I live?
Dylan: Yes.
My fingertips go numb.
Me: Are you following me?
Dylan: I see you sometimes.
Dylan: I don’t always talk to you when I see you.
Dylan: And you don’t always see me.
Oh my God, he is the one following me. He’s probably not even seventeen. He’s—
Dylan: But I’m not stalking you.
Me: Why should I believe you?
The little dots appear again. A minute goes by. Another minute.
Dylan: I’m sorry.
Dylan: You have every right to be upset.
Dylan: I screwed up.
Dylan: But I’m trying be honest with you now.
Dylan: Because I like you.
Dylan: Because in a world where we don’t fit, we fit together.
I don’t want to do it, but I have to.
I block Dylan Thomas on every social media site.
