In the back of her mind, she questioned when she’d have time to meet “the one” in all of that; when she’d have time to go on a single date, even. But she brushed her wavy brown
hair to the side and charged toward her little red car. She’d always done better on her own.
She stretched her manicured fingers over the steering wheel, listening to the engine purr, and reminded herself that a life fulfilled with a career, with the possibility of travel, was much better and stronger than any life of love. Love was volatile; love could ruin you. And, as a PR agent, she knew better than to put herself in danger.
THREE
Amity lined up her suitcases outside of her apartment door and checked her purse for her passport, which she thumbed through lightly. She had only one stamp—London, from that time, nearly nine years ago, when she’d journeyed with her mother. That felt like a lifetime ago: standing on the banks of the Thames, wondering at the life she would create for herself. Her mother, a child of divorce, and herself divorced from Amity’s father, had explained to her then that she must pursue her own destiny, without mixing it with the destiny of others.
“No wonder I’m so cynical,” Amity breathed, grabbing her suitcase and ensuring the door was locked once more. She had a taxi waiting for her to head to the airport, and she was already mentally saying goodbye to L.A.
She’d called her friends the evening before, explaining in ecstatic tones that she was heading off on a “near impossible” assignment in the Middle East. Her friends had seemed vaguely interested, but had soon diverted the conversation to talk of their beauty regimes and shopping habits. Amity had sat demurely, waiting for a chance to scamper from the phone and finish packing. She should have known better.
She swept into the taxi as the driver lifted her luggage into the trunk. “You’ve got a lot here. You moving away?” he asked her, winking.
“Just on assignment,” she replied, giving him a shy grin. Secretly, she was bursting with anticipation. What would meet her on the other side of the world? And would her work brain kick in immediately, despite the change of scene? Could she trust herself to focus on the task at hand?
The taxi lurched through traffic, edging this way and that, and Amity made her peace with the city she’d called home for so many years. She cracked the window and inhaled the polluted air; she caught a glimpse of the Pacific and longed to run on the sand just one more time.
But she’d done all she could do. She felt like the memory of it was running from her mind, like that same sand through her fingers. L.A. had never quite fulfilled its prophecy, and yet, she had to be okay with it. She was going to search for something else.
Amity entered the airport terminal nearly an hour later. She hated the smell of sweating bodies mixed with airport food, and she rubbed a bit of lotion on her fingers and hands, making a face.
As she reached the other side of security, she caught sight of Flora, sat cross-legged against a wall, her carry-on pressed up against her. Her blond hair swam in curls around her shoulders.
Amity lifted her fingers into a wave and crossed the room toward her assistant. Flora got to her feet and yanked a notebook out of her pocket, donning her professional face. “Miss Winters. So good to see you. I have our itinerary here—”
But Amity shook her head. “We’ll save the work for when we get there,” she said, her voice kind. “Let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we?”
Flora looked relieved. She fell back to the ground and crossed her legs once more, tapping the carpet beside her. “Want to sit?”
“Sure.”
Flora popped a piece of gum in her mouth and started smacking loudly. “I told Mark I couldn’t see him,” she said then, her eyes distant. “I knew he would find someone else while I was gone, so I thought I might as well end things first. He’s kind of a jerk anyway.”
“Mark from the office?” Amity asked, not knowing what else to say.
Flora gave her a “come on” eye roll. “Of course,” she shrugged. “I mean. You see him every day, don’t you? He’s hot. Even though he’s younger than you, you have to admit that.”
“He’s actually older than me,” Amity said quietly, her eyebrows high. She’d hired Mark three years before, when she’d moved up in the company, but he hadn’t been promoted since.
But Flora just chewed on. “He wasn’t going to make it in PR anyway, and this is my dream. My dream.” She tapped her chest emphatically. “You know he just wants to be an actor. Just another one of those.”
“I see.” Again, Amity didn’t have any advice. She peered down at her fingers. “Well. I guess good riddance. You’re advancing your career while he’s—”
But at this moment, she noticed a single tear diving down Flora’s supple cheek. How wretched men were, she thought then. Toying with this girl’s heart, without any plans of keeping it.
Luckily, the plane began boarding then, the stewards calling their tickets and directing them down the long corridor to the plane itself. The interior was noisy, cramped—but their first-class seats were luxurious, offering wide cushions and a footrest. Amity collapsed into hers, having been unable to sleep the night before. Flora sat beside her and immediately buried her nose into a magazine—an article entitled “How