Free The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley Page B

fine even though that’s a lie. She’s not fine. She’s coming apart, bit by bit, her body growing weak, her mind addled with images of Henry’s smile, with his triumphant laughter, with the last words she heard him speak. What’s wrong with you?
    â€œI need to run,” Clio says, “I need to get in touch with Henry.” She pushes her drink to the center of the table; she hasn’t taken a single sip. “This one’s up for grabs. You two can fight over it.”
    â€œWe’ll duke it out,” Tate quips, the concern in his eyes quickly fading.
    Clio finds a twenty in her bag and hands it to Smith, as she always does. Smith bats it away. “Stop. It’s Thatcher’s pleasure.”
    â€œIt was so good to see you again, Tate,” Clio says. He gives her a knowing look, a comforting nod, as if to say, She’s in good hands; I’m still that quiet kid from freshman year .
    At the door of the restaurant, Clio looks back. The two of them are deep in conversation, laughing.
    As she exits the restaurant, she nearly stumbles. Her exhaustion is thick and throttling. It’s unclear what awaits her, but she can’t put it off any longer.

5:07PM
    â€œYou barely know me.”
    C lio wanders out of the park and pulls out her phone. She dials Jack. When he picks up, one of his daughters cries in the background. “Hang on,” he says. “Let me sneak into the bathroom.”
    As always, the sound of his voice soothes her. She hears a door close and then it’s quiet. “I have so much to tell you,” she says. “I think I screwed things up with Henry. I’m no good at this, Jack. And now Smith is off drinking with this guy from college and I’m worried she’s falling apart and I’m dreading coming home to my dad. It’s just so sad.”
    â€œHave you called your dad, Clio?” Jack says.
    â€œNot yet,” she says, and is suddenly defensive with guilt. “I just got back yesterday.”
    â€œYou’ve managed to call me twice since you’ve been back,” he says.
    â€œBecause it’s you, ” Clio says.
    â€œCall him,” Jack says. “Let him know when you’re coming home. Call me later and tell me everything, but go call your dad. There’s a small human banging on the door anyway. I’ve got to go.”
    Clio laughs. “All right, Mr. Conscience. Say hello to the small human.”
    She hangs up and stares at the screen. She promised her father she’d call to discuss Thanksgiving as soon as she got home, but yesterday was a flurry of activity from the moment she touched down at JFK. She’d hoped to catch up on some sleep after her trip, but Smith had other plans: a makeover.
    This was a big night, Smith argued, and Clio needed to look the part. She insisted that Clio borrow a dress and heels, that if she took the train home that evening from the Yale-Harvard game in New Haven and found Clio wearing her melancholy navy shift dress to the party, she wouldn’t forgive her.
    So instead of spending the day sifting through her field notes from Ecuador, Clio, flattened by fatigue, floated from salon to salon, where Smith had booked appointments for her, being pampered. She sipped mint tea and nibbled on almond cookies and allowed herself to be transformed from angst-ridden ornithologist to well-heeled ingénue. It was all an act, a contrivance, but Clio delighted in not fighting it; it was, oddly, just what she needed. And when she stood in front of Smith’s full-length mirror ready to go in her glittery dress and heels, her dark-blond hair smooth and straight, makeup flawless on her pale skin, she felt a surge of confidence.
    The day had slipped by and the party began and, well, she never called her dad.
    She loves him, she reminds herself of this, but talking to her father inevitably brings her back. All those years of the three of them—Clio and her mother