Free In Some Other World, Maybe: A Novel by Shari Goldhagen

that Adam feels about her the way Oliver did? For not keeping her promise to his mother?
    “No worries.” On tiptoes, she brushes lips across his brow because saying anything else might cause Adam to look sadder than he already does, and she feels like she’s having an asthma attack, needs to get outside and into Adam-free air immediately.
    “At least let me carry your stuff—”
    She waves his hand away. “It’s really light.”
    “Well, call to let me know you got in okay.”
    It’s a weird echo of what her father always says as he drops her at O’Hare, of what she asked Oliver to do seven years ago when he headed back to Chicago for school. But no one calls to say they got in all right; the reason to call would be not getting in okay.
    “Yeah. I’ll try you later.”
    *   *   *
    She actually does want to call Adam almost immediately after landing at eight in the morning, when she bumbles off the jetway to find not her father or Gennifer waiting at the gate, but her brother. Though it takes her a few seconds to recognize Chase. He’s shaved the goatee that had been a permanent fixture since he started at the University of Wisconsin five years ago, and instead of his usual ironic T-shirts—Oscar the Grouch or bald and menacing Captain Rowen—he’s wearing tailored slacks and a jacket she’s almost certain is Prada.
    “Where’s Dad?” She sounds accusatory, and Chase grins, universes older than she remembers, as if six months at a New York investment bank has turned him into her senior.
    “We were already up for our run, and I never get to drive anymore.”
    The “we” stops everything. Busy contemplating new Prada/professional Chase, Phoebe hadn’t noticed the brunette next to him in a smart leather trench coat, pantyhose, and stacked heels no less than five inches high.
    “Sharon Gallaher, only one G,” says the woman. “It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve heard so many stories.”
    Yes, a few weeks ago (or was it months; time in her vampire life is nebulous), Chase had mentioned he was dating someone, but he was always dating someone—usually a blond someone—and he’d never brought any of the someones home before.
    “You’re even more luminous than in the Dannon commercials.” Sharon is still talking. Despite the grown-up clothes (early in the morning on a day no one works), she’s probably not more than twenty-three, cheeks round and dewy in a way that’s never natural past twenty-five. “I love the bob.”
    Unconsciously, Phoebe’s fingers go to the blunt edge of her hair. Sharon sounds sincere, which isn’t always the case; shards of blame are often tucked into compliments from other women.
    “It’s really short,” her brother says, sounding almost clueless enough to be pre–Wall Street Chase Fisher.
    Although as kids they could communicate whole schemes behind their parents’ backs using nothing more than eyebrows, when Phoebe tries meeting her brother’s gaze to ask who this girl is, Chase offers no explanation, just takes Phoebe’s bag and throws it over his shoulder. And she remembers all the messages she didn’t return because she was so caught up in her non-relationship with Adam. All those things that she could never tell her brother because he’d been protective of her long before there was anything to protect her from.
    “You ready?” Chase frowns. “Did you not bring a coat?”
    And in case there was any doubt, it socks her in the gut—like the frozen Chicago air will a few minutes later—that she’s not in LA anymore.
    *   *   *
    In the breakfast nook three hours later, Gennifer is clearing platters of bagels, whitefish, and sturgeon that cloyingly thoughtful Sharon brought from New York; Phoebe’s father and brother are beaming at Sharon’s election analysis; and Phoebe is staring into her coffee mug as if it contains vital information.
    “Florida aside, Gore should’ve had this in the bag,” Sharon says, still in the heels. After