Page 21 of Break Me Beautifully
Chapter 8.
I'm not usually anearly riser, but it's different living under someone else's roof. Compound that with how unsettled I've been since seeing Marshall talking with someone when I wasn't supposed to see and, well, my nerves are too frayed to let me stay in bed.
I think it's adrenaline. What else would make my heart thud like I'd pounded two energy drinks in a row at five in the morning? It keeps me tossing and turning until I drag myself into the shower, but that barely helps.
Cracking my window, I scan the city below. It's strangely bright out for a winter morning. The sun glows in the brilliant blue sky, trying to convince me it'll be warm outside when I know it's below fifty degrees.
Back home I'd often go for runs in the garden. There was plenty of space outside for me to wriggle my bare toes in the fluffy grass and dirt without anyone getting in my way. The memory puts a thought in my brain I can't shake. Before I know it, I'm slipping into thick joggers, a sweatshirt and sweater for double warmth, and my sneakers. With my sketchbook tucked safely into my bag, phone secured in my zipped pants pocket, I tip-toe out of my room.
The penthouse's main room is quiet. Pink sunbeams filter through the huge windows, making the white couch look like it's blushing. Marshall is nowhere to be seen. It hits me that if he wakes up and can't find me, he might flip out. We haven't exchanged numbers yet.
On his stainless steel fridge I find a pack of sticky notes. I'm looking for a pen when it occurs to me that his fridge is entirely blank. No photos, no Christmas cards, no reminders. The lack of personal touch baffles me.
Using my own pencil I scribble my number down. I slap it onto the inside of the door so he'll see it if he goes to chase after me. Marshall has bolted, chained, and locked the door.Paranoid?I wonder. I lock the door with the key he gave me on my way out.
And then ... I'm free.
What a funny feeling. I hadn't felt trapped before, but how often did I get to explore a place all alone? My parents or siblings or a driver or security were always with me—I had constant companionship. But not here.
Whistling with joy, buzzing like I’m getting away with something, I half-jog from the elevator through the lobby and into the city air. Early as it is, the streets are packed with cars. Multiple joggers bounce by on the sidewalks. The energy is contagious. I start running, trailing a group at a distance as they weave through crosswalks and stopped cars on their way to who knows where.
I'm thrilled with just the act of running. The brisk air refreshes my lungs and mind. I see my breath as I pant heavier after a few minutes. My throat burns ragged. I push harder, reveling in the act ofmoving.The group starts to split apart as we jog down a slope. Green color takes over my vision. We've made it to Central Park.
Gasping, I brace my hands on my knees, sucking in oxygen, laughing at myself for seeing how far I could go before my body gave out. There are tons of people walking through the park. A bicyclist rolls around me, vanishing down the path. Rubbing my hands over my face, I rub my cold cheeks with a delighted smile.
This is what I needed.
Finding a bench, I slip out my sketchbook and start to draw. I don't have to think about what I'll make; my hands just start dragging the pencil over the page. Inspiration is a funny animal. You can't catch it, you can't summon it, but when it's around you count yourself lucky and take advantage of the encounter.
My butt is going numb in the cold after half an hour. My stomach is even less happy. I'm debating searching for a place to grab breakfast when a little voice pipes up near me. "Wow! Did you make that?"
There's a small girl standing behind the bench. I didn't notice her. Has she been watching me all this time? Her purple mittens are gripping the curved iron, giving her stability as she stands on tiptoe to crane her neck and look over my shoulder at the sketchbook in my lap. The tip of her nose is beet red, the same shade as the scarf swaddling her whole head, strands of messy brown hair poking out in every direction.
"Oh, uh, hi!" I say, glancing around for the girl's parents. She can't be older than ten or eleven. "You like this?" I hold up my sketchbook. The dragon I started isn't finished yet.
"I love it!" she gushes. "Can you show me how to draw like that?"
"I ... I mean it takes a lot of practice," I stutter. Her eyes are begging me. There's something in her eager desperation that makes it impossible to deny her. "I guess I could show you some things."
"Yay! Thank you!" she squeals, hopping over the bench to land beside me.
