Girls Who Travel Read Free Page A

happened to her. My father was a tremendously handsome (and tremendously married) Roman man she met while living in Italy. They no longer speak.
    We didn’t spring for the air-conditioned cabin, and my thighs suctioned to the seat as I shifted my legs.
    â€œJaysus, no, I haven’t a missus.”
    I closed my mouth, but the alarm didn’t subside. “Not even a mad wife locked in the attic? That still counts, you know,” I prodded. This was one thing that my usually chilled yogic mother would panic over.
    His head shook like a swinging door. But then a moment later he asked, “Wait, is that not the story of
Jane Eyre
?”
    â€œGirlfriend? Boyfriend? Illegitimate children?” I fired, my brain whizzing faster.
    â€œWould you stop? It’s nothing like that at all.” He fidgeted with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt, wrapping it around his finger until his skin went colorless.
    â€œWas it something illegal?” I asked. “Were you in jail?”
    â€œâ€™Course not,” he said, pinching his face like he’d just smelled something sour. “Is the question-and-answer period of the program over now? Look, I’m sorry I mentioned it. Forget it, yeah?”
    He looked up at me with expectant, childlike eyes; this look was a departure from his usual self-assured swagger. His Adam’s apple dipped in a hard swallow. My shoulder blades unclenched when he looked at me like that.
    â€œOkay. One more question,” I said. “Whatever you did, whatever happened—is it truly in the past?”
    The train snaked through a mango grove, and the air grew sticky with the scent of rotting fruit and noxious diesel fumes.
    Lochlon didn’t even glance at the luscious, waxy mango trees and instead leaned forward, supporting his elbows with his knees.
    â€œBy God it is,” he assured me emphatically.
    A freight train going the opposite direction clattered parallel to us, momentarily blocking the view in filmlike flickers. In that moment, the worry burned away like a puddle in the blistering Indian sun.
    â€œThen it doesn’t matter to me. If this is the real you, then I don’t care about what happened back then.” The train plunged into the black shadow of a tunnel.
    â€œYou say that now. But once I tell you, you won’t want anything to do with me.”

4
    A RUDELY SHRILLING phone yanked me from the Internet rabbit hole.
    â€œKika Shores, VoyageCorp,” I chirped with counterfeit liveliness. “How may I assist you this fine day?”
    I looked at Holland through his glass office, and he curled his top lip in warning. He had been observing my phone demeanor ever since he caught me answering the phone with “Kika Shores, Office Bitch.” (I thought it was my mom calling. It was an innocent mistake that could happen to anyone.)
    â€œHi, Kika, it’s Lynn, Madison’s mother. I couldn’t get you on your cell, and your mom passed on this number.”
    I winced and swiveled my chair to face away from Holland’s office.
    â€œHey, Lynn. Yeah, this is my office number, but my mom really shouldn’t be giving it out.”
    â€œOf course,” she said with her heartland politeness, “but darling, I
must
say you do sound
very
professional!”
    I loved mothers of young children; they were always easily impressed and quick to dole out praise.
Thanks, I have a big-girl job!
    â€œI was just calling to confirm tonight. I’ll pick you up from the train station at six thirty with Madison and then drop you girls off at home. I should be home by midnight. I hope that’s not too late for you, is it?”
    I jerked my swivel chair one half turn farther, binding the curly phone cord around myself. I was babysitting her five-year-old daughter, Madison, that night. Why did she have to make it sound like we were having a playdate?
    Madison’s mom insisted that she pick me up from the train station,