Page 8 of Rising Heat

By the time I cleared New York and the Hudson spread out beside me—gray and ugly and somehow glittering anyway beneath the weak winter sun—I had the windows down despite the freezing air and was scream-singing the bridge of “Silver Springs” like Stevie Nicks herself might materialize in the passenger seat and harmonize.

The cold bit at my face. My voice sounded cracked and too loud. My eyes watered from the wind. I didn’t care about any of it.

My butt cheeks had gone completely numb as I crossed into Providence, but I found a tiny diner off the highway with a faded red sign and a decommissioned seaplane bolted to the roof like somebody’s long-lost fever dream.

I ordered pancakes at the counter and drank coffee so bitter it could strip paint. The waitress called me “honey” twice. Nobody there knew I’d ended an engagement. Or disappointed my family. Or cried in the parking lot of a rest stop in New Jersey.

To them, I was just another woman passing through. For some reason, that felt like a gift.

And now I’m here.

I push myself out of bed, find my other fuzzy sock trapped beneath the comforter, and pad to the bathroom.

The mirror gives sleep-creased cheeks and hair that’s fully committed to chaos. But there’s color in my face I haven’t seen in months. I linger there longer than is probably healthy.

I rinse my face and head for the window, parting the thick beige blackout curtains that every chain hotel is apparently contractually obligated to provide.

Boston opens up below in shades of steel and glass. Brick buildings shoulder against newer towers. A strip of pale winter sun catches on rooftops still damp from last night’s rain.

My breath catches at it.

I glance at the time. Apartment tour in two hours.

The same apartment listing I’ve been opening late at night for the past month whenever I needed proof there was still something out there worth wanting. Not just because of the exposed brick or the stupidly perfect morning light in the listing photos.

Well, not just because of that.

Also because the lease would only have my name on it. My first front door that nobody has a key to unless I hand one over myself.

The idea makes something in me sit up a little straighter.

It’s just a tour.

A meeting. A person with access to rental applications deciding whether letting me loose in Boston is a good idea.

Which the jury’s still out on.

I pull on a soft cream sweater, dark jeans, and brown boots. Twist my hair into my favorite tortoiseshell claw clip and swipe on some mascara. The girl in the mirror still looks like she slept in a hotel room with one sock on. But she’s looking back at me instead of past me.

My phone buzzes.

Bex

Please tell me you’re wearing something hot but approachable.

Darcy

I’m touring an apartment, not seducing the leasing office.

Bex

You don’t know that.

I shake my head and throw on my puffer jacket, tucking my phone into the pocket.

Outside, Boston is cold, bright, and unknown.

For once that doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a dare.