Free Abby Road by Ophelia London Page B

good.”
    Todd tapped my shoulder again and gestured toward Town Square. “I’ll be right back.” He took off running.
    “Wait!” I called after him, feeling a little panicky at the thought of his absence. He stopped mid stride and turned around. “Where . . .” I lowered my voice. “Where are you going?”
    “I’ll be right back,” he repeated. Without another word or a chance for me to protest, he shot up the sidewalk like a silver bullet, leaving me on the street corner.
    I stared after him, wondering if he used to be a runner. Maybe he still was. Maybe he ran marathons in his spare time. Maybe—
    “Hey! Are you even listening to me?”
    “Sorry, Max, sorry. I was in the middle of something, uhh, important.” I leaned back against a skinny tree and stared south toward the water. It was limpid blue and sparkling with bits of golden sunlight, calling to me like the sirens to Odysseus or like those Austrian hills did to Maria, while my cell phone felt like an iron-hot brick against my face.
    “I’m sorry,” I repeated, kneading my forehead, “that I didn’t call like I promised. It won’t happen again. I swear.”
    Max sighed loudly into the phone. “Dammit, babe, I was hoping this break would be good for you, but you sound even more distracted, if that’s possible. You know what happens when you’re distracted.”
    I missed the old Max, the one who might have asked about my day or my flight or if I’d seen that annoying movie star, the one we both thought was majorly fuggly, on the cover of People magazine. For years, Max was practically a member of the family, albeit a very bossy member, which was probably why he could guilt trip me into anything if he pushed the right buttons.
    I sighed softly, away from the phone. “I know; don’t worry. Everything’s fine.” I was beginning to sound like a broken record.
    “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m allowing this break for you to get yourself together. We need you back here at the end of the summer, healthy and ready to work hard. You’re getting it together for me, right, babe? Or do I need to go shopping on American Idol for your replacement?”
    That little jab made me smile. “Low blow, Max.”
    He chuckled. “All right, babe. Go crash on the beach or paint your nails or whatever it is you do to kick back. But I’m calling you tomorrow to discuss something else, so keep your damn phone with you.”
    “Okay, I promise.”
    We hung up a few minutes later after he, again, reviewed what had happened, what could happen, and what would happen if I didn’t return in better mental shape. His final statement was, “Do you hear what I’m saying?” This was kind of a joke to me because what Max actually meant was this: “Do you hear what I’m not saying? Read my mind.” Over the past year or so, he had become an impossible riddle that I stopped trying to solve. Sometimes it was better to just shut up and obey.
    I stared down at my cell, flipping it over and over in my hands, wishing I hadn’t brought it along this morning. Wishing a lot of things. That phone call had been exhausting. Even though I wasn’t at work, talking to Max made me feel tense, like I was at work.
    When I looked up, I noticed a car slowing down. My muscles locked even tighter. If the paparazzi found me here, I had nowhere to hide.
    The car stopped just past me and then thankfully continued after only a few camera flashes sparked from an open window. I watched it drive away, realizing that the occupants were simply taking pictures of the Gulf behind me.
    Even still, my tense muscles wouldn’t relax. I wanted the world to go away. I wanted to run and hide somewhere private and safe, somewhere magical, like inside the peaceful hues of a landscape painting, or maybe inside the serene melody of a song I loved. Paul McCartney’s lulling “Golden Slumbers” was my personal favorite for times like that, times to hide. Christian had known how to calm me down. Sometimes it took