The Ramblers Read Online Free PDF Page A

body. Her fingertips and hands and arms tingle and then go completely numb. She struggles to swallow. Her chest tightens, locks. The light pouring in from the street spins and flashes. She squints. Objects in the room shift ominously about. She fears that she’s about to fall. Henry’s face is glazed with horror and alarm, but she can’t think about Henry right now.
    Her sole focus: escape. She must get out—out of this room, out of this hotel, out of this situation. She runs back through the door into the other room. She grabs for her bag and Smith’s heels, and keeps flying out the door. She turns just long enough to see Henry jogging after but stopping outside the room. His eyes blaze with confusion. He says something, words that trail her, echoing in her buzzing ears.
    â€œWhat the hell, Clio? What’s wrong with you?”
    She eyes the elevator, but it’s too far and too risky. The fire door is closer and she bolts through it, scurries barefoot down eleven flights.
    By the time she reaches the ground floor, she can barely stand. The pain in her legs is now razor-sharp, stabbing.
    She might just die.
    The motion detectors work, thank God, and the door to the street automatically opens as she barrels toward it. Outside, the cold air stings her cheeks. Wind threatens to blow open her robe, but she manages to hold it closed over her bare body. She steadies herself long enough to step back into the heels and hobbles toward the street, where she comesdangerously close to being hit by a car. She throws up an arm to hail a cab. Mercifully, one is quick to pull over. The driver, a young guy with bleary eyes, turns all the way around and peers worriedly through the divider.
    â€œEverything okay, miss?” he says, concern plain in his voice.
    â€œThe San Remo, please. Central Park West between Seventy-Fourth and Seventy-Fifth,” Clio says, forcing the words out, scrambling to find the lone Xanax that floats in her purse.

8:27AM
    â€œI lied.”
    O h my God. You scared the living crap out of me, Clio. What are you doing here?” Smith says, perching on the edge of her own bed.
    Clio sits up and rubs her eyes, looks groggily around Smith’s bedroom. She vaguely remembers entering the apartment, eyeing the bed in her own room, but then climbing into bed next to a sleeping Smith, a comfort habit she’s had for years. The events from last night play in a steady, sickening loop in Clio’s head. Did she really run off like that in the middle of the night?
    â€œDo you even remember texting me last night? You said the hotel has a hidden door? Were you drunk?”
    â€œSlow down . . . wait . . . oh, my head. Whisper . . . ,” Clio says. Her body is leaden; theXanax she popped in the cab knocked her out hard. And then it all comes rushing back. “Henry told me he had a surprise and the surprise was an apartment, Smith. The poor guy. He was wasted and waxed poetic about wanting a life together. And what did I do?”
    â€œPlease tell me you didn’t—” Smith says, shaking her head as if she can’t even bear to hear the rest.
    â€œI did. I ran for the hills. Shit.”
    â€œSee, I told you this was more than a casual fling,” Smith says. There’s a discernible edge in her voice, a hint of accusation.
    â€œApparently, he’s more serious about this than I thought,” Clio says, scanning the room, which is painted a dusty saffron yellow, a color Smith has used around the apartment, one Clio’s come to associate fondly with the last decade-plus of her life. Being in the room now feels strange, different.
    â€œAn apartment? But are you serious about him?” Smith asks.
    â€œI don’t even know,” Clio says. Clio thinks of the nights in Ecuador, of how she longed for him. Yes. But what good is this knowledge now that the façade she’s erected is falling away? Her calamitous meltdown last night has no doubt