Chapter 3

The bus crosses into Massachusetts. Trees replace buildings. Towns I've never heard of. Exits I'll never take.

I'm going to live with an aunt I barely know in a city I've never been to.

I'm eighteen years old and I have no home.

The thought sits in my chest like a stone.

We pull into South Station four hours later. I grab my bags and get off.

Boston is cold. Colder than New Jersey. The wind cuts through my jacket.

I find the subway. Kit texted me directions. Red Line to Charles/MGH, then walk.

Her apartment is in a building on Cambridge Street. Fourth floor. No elevator.

I knock.

The door opens.

Aunt Kit looks like Mom but sharper. Short hair instead of long. Lawyer suit instead of floral dress. Same gray eyes, but harder.

"Come in," she says.

The apartment is small. One room with a kitchen in the corner. A couch. A desk covered in papers. A door that must be the bedroom.

No photos on the walls. No decorations. Just clean lines and empty space.

It's nothing like our house.

Was our house. Not mine anymore.

"You'll sleep here." Kit points to the couch. "It pulls out. I have an extra blanket."

"Thank you."

She nods. Goes to the kitchen. Pours two glasses of water. Brings one to me.

"Sit."

I sit on the couch.

She sits in the desk chair, facing me.

"I know what your mother did," she says. "The rules. Kicking you out."

I don't say anything.

"And I know you're angry."

"You don't know anything," I say. It comes out sharper than I meant.

Kit doesn't flinch. "Maybe. But I know my sister. And if she pushed you away, she had a reason."

"What reason?" The anger rises up fast. "She chose him. She agreed with him. She said I had it easy."

"I know."

"Then how can you say she had a reason?"

Kit looks at me for a long moment. "Because Nora doesn't do anything without a plan."

"A plan? To ruin my life?"

"No. To save it."

I stare at her.

"I don't believe that."

"You don't have to. Not yet." Kit stands. "You're tired. We'll talk more tomorrow."

She disappears into the bedroom. Comes back with sheets and a blanket. Helps me pull out the couch.

"Bathroom's through there. If you need anything, let me know."

Then she goes to bed.

I lie on the couch in the dark.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. At home, I could always hear something. The TV downstairs. Victor's phone calls. Ethan's video games.

Here, there's nothing.

I pull the handbag closer. Open it.

Inside, I find Mom's things. A silk scarf, soft and worn. A lipstick in a shade she never wore. A compact mirror with initials engraved: N.A.F. Nora Anne Fitzgerald. Her maiden name.

Before Victor. Before everything.

I pick up the scarf. Hold it to my nose.

It smells like her. Lavender and coffee and something else I can't name. Something that's just Mom.

My throat tightens.

I press the scarf to my face and let myself cry.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet tears that won't stop.

I cry until I can't anymore. Until my eyes hurt and my chest aches and I'm too exhausted to think.

Then I fall asleep holding her scarf.

Morning light wakes me up. I'm disoriented for a second. This isn't my room. This isn't Casey's couch.

Oh. Right. Boston. Kit's apartment.

Kit's already awake. Dressed in another sharp suit, drinking coffee at her desk.

"Morning," she says.

"Morning."

She brings me a mug. Black coffee. I don't drink coffee, but I take it anyway.

"There's a vintage clothing store on Newbury Street," she says. "They're hiring."

I blink at her. "What?"

"A job. You need one."

"I just got here."

"And you want to go to NYU in the fall, right?" She sits down across from me. "You'll need money. Lots of it."

"I have five hundred dollars."

"That'll last you two weeks. Maybe three if you're careful." She sips her coffee. "The store's called Vintage Vogue. Owner's name is Greta. Tell her I sent you."

"You know her?"

"She's a client. I got her a divorce settlement two years ago. She owes me."

I stare at Kit.

She's already planning my life. I've been here twelve hours.

"Kit, I don't—"

"You don't have to decide now." She stands. "But think about it. Independence isn't free, Sloane. It costs money. A lot of it."

She grabs her briefcase. "I'll be home around seven. Lock the door when you leave."

Then she's gone.

I sit on the couch, holding the coffee.

"Welcome to independence, kid."