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handing out ice cream bars at St. Jude’s counts. But, surprisingly, I
do
like to cook. I mean, I’m not destined for my own cooking show or anything, but Mom always insisted on giving our chef the weekends off if they weren’t hosting a party, which means she showed me the basics. Grilled cheese. Scrambled eggs. Chili. Spaghetti.
    As for that willingness to relocate? Please. I’d
pay
them to take me away. My only complaint is that the job isn’t in LA or Seattle or somewhere in a different time zone from everything I’m trying to leave behind. Although, judging from the number of “watch for deer” signs I’ve seen so far, I’m
definitely
a long way from home.
    Basically it all comes down to the fact that one rich dude told another rich dude to find some rich ditz who wouldn’t mind acting as a paid companion.
    Not exactly the stuff Nobel Peace Prizes are made of, but I can’t bring myself to care. Whether I got the job because of connections or because of sheer luck (it’s certainly not because of skill), it’s still a ticket out of New York. It’s still an escape.
    But all that being said, I don’t know much about my client. I mean, I know Harry Langdon is an elderly businessman with a shit-ton of money. But as for his son? No idea.
    Not because I wasn’t curious. Google would have told me what I needed to know in a heartbeat. And God knows, a little research would have been prudent. But honestly? I’ve been scared to death that all it’ll take is one gruesome picture or detailed account of his injuries to have me backing out of the whole thing.
    I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m not used to
ugly.
And from what Mr. Langdon has implied so far, whatever happened to his son was very ugly indeed.
    I barely managed to get myself on the plane this morning as it was. The last thing I needed was to know what I was getting into. But now I’m here with no chance of backing out, and keeping my head in the sand is no longer an option.
    I can’t stop thinking about how
sad
Mick’s voice was when he talked about Paul. No,
Mr. Paul.
Maybe it’s time to figure out exactly what I’m dealing with here.
    I pull my cellphone out of my purse, scrolling through the barrage of texts awaiting me.
    Mom:
Call me as soon as you’re settled. Remember, nobody will think less of you if you decide you want to come home early.
    Dad:
Olive. Call if you need anything. Proud of you.
    Bella:
Miss you already. You’re the hottest Florence Nightingale I know.
    Andrea:
U there yet? my aunt and uncle have a summer home in Vermont if u get creeped out taking care of an old dude and need an escape. xoxoxoxoxo.
    The rest, from my friends, are a mixture of support and skepticism that I’ll see this through. I freeze when I get to Michael’s, though:
Call me when you quit running.
I delete it.
    But it’s the last message that
really
eats at me. Ethan and I haven’t had any contact since I tried—and failed—to get him back a couple of months ago, yet he cares enough to reach out with a simple
Good luck, Liv.
    I read those three simple words about five times, but I’m unable to find any hidden meaning. That’s the kind of guy Ethan is. He’s simply
good.
    I didn’t deserve him.
    I respond to my parents, letting them know that I’ve arrived safely and that everything’s okay, but don’t reply to anyone else. I don’t even know what I’d say. Although the flight from New York to Maine was only a little over an hour, I already feel completely detached from my old life. The feeling is unsettling, but also freeing. As though maybe I really can start over.
    I start to go about my initial task of Googling Paul Langdon, but the coverage is spotty, and before my phone can load the search results, cell service has gone from spotty to nonexistent.
    Fantastic.
    I put the phone away and lean back in my seat, letting my mind wander. I alternate between worst-case-scenario visions of what lies ahead (
just one more thing you can