Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“If I have to,” he says, and I’m pretty sure I hear a smile on his face.
I refuse to look. I’m not giving him that satisfaction. Instead, I watch the airport filter past as the plane taxis to the private terminal.
Baltimore’s a lot like Philly. The row homes are mostly red brick. There are green spaces, lots of rundown neighborhoods, and tons of life. People mill around the streets, even in the late evening as the sun sets. There’s a downtown with skyscrapers, and I can almost smell the inner harbor.
Another one of Tigran’s drivers takes us into an upscale neighborhood. The houses here are in great shape, with lots of glass and windows. Roof decks, gastropubs on every corner, life, movement, and excitement.
It’s overwhelming to a girl who hasn’t been out of her suite much in the last decade, but it’s also fascinating.
“Sometimes I feel like the world moved on without me,” I murmur, forgetting for a second about my husband.
But he’s always got to remind me that he’s there. “You act like the horse-drawn carriage was the primary mode of transportation when you were last moving around outside.”
“No, obviously not, but it’s just—” How do I make him get it? That everything just looks different?
“Try to explain,” he says patiently.
“I was a little kid back then. Mostly I remember what the city was like from the perspective of a thirteen-year-old. Now I’m twenty-five, and it’s like…”
“Everything’s smaller?”
“Yeah, that, but also it’s just different.” I’m frustrated with myself because I can’t put it into words. The way trains and buses aren’t magical anymore. Buildings aren’t incredible. “Everything lost its shine.”
“You’re jaded,” he says like he completely understands.
I look back at him. “I don’t feel jaded, but maybe that’s the right word.”
“I was like that too, you know, back when I was young. I thought the world worked one way, but as I got older, it became clear that it just doesn’t work at all.”
“That’s pretty depressing.”
“Liberating, I think. Now that I understand life doesn’t mean a thing, I have the freedom to do what I please.”
I shrink away from him. “I think life has meaning.”
“Do you? Funny, coming from a girl who’s been hiding from life for more than half of hers.”
I turn, about to argue, but it dies in my throat. What if he’s right? I always imagined my life had purpose—that even if I was hiding away, I still mattered. What if his sad, nihilistic viewpoint is real, and nothing really matters at all?
And all I’ve done is waste my time?
But no, I won’t think that way. He can be all doom and gloom. Even though I’ve been a shut-in, I still think there’s good in the world. Maybe I’ve been hiding from the bad stuff, but I’ve tried to keep myself open to everything else.
Just in my own ways. Through books, movies, TV, and the internet.
The car pulls up in front of a large, modern house right across the street from the water. It’s enormous and beautiful, in some of the most prime real estate in the entire city.
“Here we are,” he says, getting out of the car.
My jaw drops open. He pops the trunk and grabs my bags, waving off the driver and doing it himself. I scramble out, and the second my feet hit the pavement, I think this has to be some mistake.
“You live here?” I ask when he starts toward the front door.
“You should see the Sarkissian mansion. You’ll like that. Secret passages and lots of blood-stained carpet.” He laughs like that’s somehow a funny joke.
This is my home. A big, black front door waits for me. Tigran wrestles my bags inside, grunting as he goes, and I can’t seem to move.
I know what will happen once I’m in there.
I won’t come back out.
This is the end for me. I know it, and Tigran’s got to know it too. There’s no way I’ll work up the courage to leave the house again once I’m in the safety of this big, beautiful place. Unless I turn and run, I’ll be trapped.
Because I’m going to trap myself.
“Dasha, come inside,” Tigran says from the doorway. He beckons for me and holds out a hand.
I don’t want to. I look away, toward the car, and wonder if I could steal it. But I don’t even know how to drive. I never learned. What was the point?
Now I wish I had done something, anything, these last twelve years.
“Dasha,” he says again, this time a little more insistent.
“Coming.” I hang my head and follow him into the house.
The door shuts behind me.
“I’ll give you a tour later,” he says as I catch glimpses of an upscale home. Dark, gleaming floors, expensive oil paintings on the wall. Tasteful statues, vintage furniture. Big, gold-framed mirrors. A sitting room with a piano, an office that’s clearly his, a gourmet kitchen.