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“I … I just … I should get going.” I say it, but my feet don’t move.
“Where are you headed?” His green eyes—lit up by the million lights of Times Square like a pair of perfectly cut emeralds—compel me to look back at him, and I can’t help staring.
I bite my lip, unsure if I should accept his help. But not wanting to be accosted by another crazed weirdo, what choice do I have? I show him the card with Mercy’s address, and his brow furrows for a moment as he looks at it.
“It’s not too far from here,” he says. “But are you sure it’s the right address?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, I happen to be familiar with that place,” he replies. “It’s a bar.”
“Well, my cousin says she lives there.” I blink stupidly. “Can you point me in the right direction?”
He looks at me, and for a moment, I imagine him telling me that he’ll walk me there. But instead, he disappoints me and simply points to our right.
“Go north two blocks,” he says. “And make a left.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “What’s your name?”
“Nikolai,” he replies. “Nikolai Starukhin.”
“Eden,” I reply and extend my hand to him. “Eden Clark.”
“Nice meeting you, Eden Clark,” Nikolai smiles. “Perhaps I’ll see you soon.”
Without another word, he turns and walks away. I resist the urge to call out to his retreating figure.
“Come on, Eden,” I whisper to myself. “Get ahold of yourself.”
I begin walking north like he told me to, still trying to wrangle my book into place. And as the lights of Times Square dance all around me, I notice something poking up from the pages of my book. Stopping at a crosswalk, I pull it out.
It’s a card that says “Chrysanthea” on it. When I turn it over, there’s an address and Nikolai’s name. But it’s neither of those things that send my heart skipping a beat.
It’s the words on the other side.
Owner. Contemporary Art Gallery.
4
EDEN
It doesn’t take longfor me to get to the address on Mercy’s card, and true to Nikolai’s words, it’s a bar. The name “Somewhere Bar”is lit up by neon lights, and even though it’s not too far from Times Square, it looks surprisingly empty.
I wonder if I’ve made a mistake when I spot her red hair—same as mine—before she sees me. I wave at her like a fool, and her dark eyes narrow on me for a moment before they light up with recognition. She coughs and tosses her cigarette to the ground.
“Eden!” she calls out. “What the hell! What are you doing here?”
“Hey, Mercy!” I shout back, dodging a pedestrian to reach her.
Mercy wraps me in a tight hug. Her welcome is the reassurance I need right now. She steps back and looks me hard in the eyes. “Where’s your dad?”
I swallow hard. “I ran away.”
“Ran away?” She laughs loudly, verging on a coughing fit. “You’re eighteen, for Chrissake. Call it what it is: you left home.” She gives me another bear hug before pulling back, smiling.“Well, you just gave Michael Clark a huge dose of his own goddamn medicine.”
Mercy rarely calls Dad anything but his proper name. “The dictator just got dicked over. Gotta love it.”
I frown, and Mercy takes it down a notch.
