Run!
The voice screaming at me was mine. From a distant, foggy, back
corner of my mind.
Run, dammit!
But my body simply refused to listen. I stood there. And stared. With my
mouth hanging open.
Now!
“Okay! Okay…” I said. Out loud. To myself.
I was a bit drunk. Well, actually I was a lot drunk. But I hiked up my dress
and started walking on bare feet across the slick tiles.
Running was not my thing. I used to tell friends that if they saw me running
they’d better turn and run because they were about to die.
And running after a long night of partying? Sooo not the best idea.
But I had to get away from the creepy tall guy in the dark robe staring down
at me. He stood between me and the rest of the people at the party. And no
one was going to hear me yelling over the loud music.
Only bad part was that my boozy brain and feet were not on the same page. I
stumbled a few times and completely fell on my face rushing to the fire escape.
But I made it to the ladder and when I looked back, he was storming across
the terrace after me.
I tried to get a good look at his face, but the hood on his robe was pulled
down. And he was carrying my shoes and phone in his hand.
He wanted no trace of me left behind.
Taking a deep breath, I heaved myself over the low wall and onto the fire
escape. My palms, slick with sweat, gripped the slippery metal ladder as I made
my way down. The first landing wasn’t far, but, of course, as a tall girl I just
had to channel my inner klutz halfway there—my foot slipped, skidding off
the rung. My fingers scrambled, gripping the metal bars like my life depended
on it—because, well, it literally did.
And then, gravity said, “Not today.” My hand slid, and I dropped like a sack
of questionable decisions onto the landing grate and rolled toward the edge.
The impact rattled me, and I barely managed to grab the rail before I went
tumbling to the street below.
For a moment, I just held tight, doubled over, staring down at 110th Street.
The bright lights of the Upper West Side blurred as a delivery truck rolled by.
My breath came in frantic gasps, each one stabbing through the lingering haze
of tequila and adrenaline clogging my brain.
“Get it together,” I hissed to myself, trying to sound like a badass, even
though my shaking knees and pounding heart gave off a completely different
vibe. This wasn’t the time to panic—I could have my meltdown later,
preferably somewhere with fewer heights and more snacks.
At the next landing, I dared to look up. He stood there at the edge of the
rooftop, a dark silhouette against the pre-dawn sky. I could not see his eyes
but his stillness created a cold intensity that raised the hair on my neck, my
arms.
I scanned the empty street below, searching desperately for anyone—a
passing stranger, someone talking on their phone, a storefront light flickering
on. But it was four in the morning, and the entire block lay silent and deserted,
swallowed by the goddamn shadows.
Sweat burned as it ran into my eyes. I swiped at it with the back of my shaky
hand before continuing my descent, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Earlier that day, I should’ve let the call go to voicemail when my dad’s number
popped up. But I answered…
And that’s what started this whole mess.
I sat at my dorm room desk, absently sketching out a cocktail dress on a
notepad, the lines flowing easier than the hours I spent trying to focus on
classes. My textbooks were stacked on the far corner of the desk, looming like
a silent reminder of everything I was supposed to be doing. My junior year
should have been winding down smoothly, but with barely enough credits to
call myself a freshman, the gap was a pretty big canyon.
Fury overwhelmed me when my phone rang, cutting through the quiet.
Everyone who really knew me knew the rule: don’t call, just text. And then…
don’t text. But my father was the exception—the one person who ignored
my rule completely. I felt my shoulders tense as I rubbed at my forehead,
bracing against the dull ache already creeping in, anticipating the familiar
conversation that lay ahead.
I scooped up my phone. “What?”
“Is that any way to answer the phone, Finley?”
He called me Finley and not Fin—I was in trouble.
“What do you want, dad?”
“Well, your mother just forwarded me your midterm grades. And I do not
like what I am seeing.” I could hear him clacking away on his keyboard.
“Mom knows how to forward something? Wait! She was sober enough to
check her email? Wow.”
“Finley…”
“Dad…”
“I am paying a shitload of money for you to go to school and—” And he
rambled on like that for a few minutes, but I ignored him. (Oh, and for your
reference: a shitload is more than a buttload but less than a fuck-ton.)
“Finley? Finley?!”
I put the phone back to my ear.
“I know all this. I’m working on getting my grades up, dad. I really am.”
“It’s not the grades, Fin! So much as it is these weird classes! You started
off Pre-Med and failed miserably… yet again. You’ve been kicked out of two
schools! And you agreed to switch to a finance major, but… none of these
goddamn classes make any sense!”
I always considered myself to be kind of smart, but you would not know it
from my school progress so far. After being thrown out of my second
prestigious school for piss-poor grades (“calculated mediocrity”) and ‘a lack of
respect for the integrity of the academic process’ as I recall one letter stating,
my father demanded that I get my act together (a favorite phrase of his), start
studying, and actually attend classes. The right classes.
“I don’t… I’m not sure I want to be a finance… person,” He had this way of
making me feel like an eight year old caught eating cookies before dinner. “I-I
don’t think that’s what I want to do.”
“And what do you want to do? Be a loser your whole life?! Jesus, Fin!”
I held up my sketch of the dress, afraid to tell him the truth. “I don’t know.
I have no idea. Who does when they’re twenty years old?”
“Most people have a pretty good goddamn idea by then, Fin! I did!”
“Well, I’m… I’m not most people. And I’m not you, so—”
“Look, you have a job waiting for you here at Ronin! When you graduate!
But you gotta show your bona fides! You’ll start low six figures, right out of
school!”
“I know. But maybe it’s not about money with me, you know. What if I want
to—”
“You’ve got your accounting courses out of the way, barely… But what the
hell is Fashion Marketing, Textile Science, and… Drafting and Sewing? Are these
actual college classes?! You don’t need any more electives! Oh, and everything
is about money, Fin.” He exhaled deeply. “Every. Thing.”
You might’ve heard of my father—Sean Maguire? He’s a big-shot hedge
fund manager at Ronin Advisors in New York City, the kind of guy whose name
gets dropped in glossy magazines and overpriced power lunches. And my
mother? Well, let’s just say her portfolio leans heavily into vodka futures.
They live in a sprawling Greenwich mansion, complete with manicured lawns,
a pool more decorative than practical, and just enough distance from the city
so he can feel like he belongs among the elite.
“I’m at the end of my rope with you, hon. You’re a girl! Girls are supposed
to be good at school! You don’t want to end up like your uncles, trust me…”
We come from stereotypical Boston Irish stock—the kind that’s been woven
into the fabric of Southie for generations. My dad’s brothers, his father, and
even his grandfather wore the blue with pride, serving as cops and trying to
keep their neighborhoods in line. The kind of men who talked with their hands,
drank whiskey straight, and carried a sense of duty much heavier than their
guns.
But my father? He had other plans. The Irish temperament, if you’re
unfamiliar, is equal parts ego, hot temper, and mule-headed stubbornness,
shaken up and poured into one tenacious human. My scrappy dad leaned into
that cocktail, ditching the family tradition for something flashier. He traded
the badge for a slick suit and a sleek briefcase, heading to NYC to carve out his
fortune off the backs of the well-heeled and overpaid.
“You have the chance to be a successful advisor at one of the most prestigious
firms in Manhattan! People would kill for this opportunity! And if you don’t
straighten up and fly right, I will cut you off. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. I do… but—”
“Get it right, Fin. Bye.”
That’s how most of our conversations went—massive disappointment was
piled on and various threats were made—and, as always, I was too spooked
to defend myself. What did I want to be when I grew up? I thought maybe a
doctor. Or a fashion designer. Or a writer. Oh, or a fashion writer! But financial
advisor? Hell no. But all I ever got was, ‘Decide what you want to be—as long as
I approve—or I’ll take away your money!’
So now that I was completely irate, I needed some revenge. Now, I consider
myself to be a recovering introvert. I love being alone. Mostly because I’m the
only person who will put up with me. I dread being around people. But… I’m
also kind of a smart ass. Even got voted Class Clown back in high school. And I
was constantly getting in trouble, being sent to the principal’s office at least
once a week. So, passive aggression was my only outlet. I did what I always
do… I took out my anger on him… passively.
Searching online for his landscaping company in Cos Cob, I called them up,
using my mother’s slurred Boston accent, and told them: “Hi, this is Missus
Maguire. Yes, on Putnam Avenue. I would like you to come to ah house and
remove ah front lawn today. Yes, that is correct. Take out the enti-ah lawn. And
it must be done by tonight! I’m going to install rocks tomorrow so I can plant
my succulent garden. And don’t bother me in the house—I feel a migraine
coming on. Thank you so much, dear. Buh-bye!”
My father’s lawn was his pride and joy—lush, green, and obnoxiously
perfect, like something out of a country club brochure. Honestly, I’m pretty
sure he cared more about that stupid patch of grass than he ever cared about
me. And now? The landscape company was coming to rip it all out. Every last
pristine blade.
I sat back in my chair, the corners of my mouth twitching as I tried to hide
the satisfaction bubbling up. Grabbing my drawing pad, I started doodling,
each stroke fueled by a glorious mental image of the chaos to come. By the
time I finished, I was grinning like a kid with the keys to the candy store.
I started across the fire escape landing, but tripped on the grate. My knee got
bruised up, but I felt nothing—the pain was swimming upstream against the
booze. Apparently.
Frustrated, I shouted up at the penthouse party. “This is your fault,
Genevieve! I’m going to die because of you!”
The creepy guy had vanished; he wasn’t climbing down after me.
Had he given up? I wasn’t about to wait and see. Heart still pounding, I
plummeted down the metal stairs, refusing to slow down.
