“It’s not into the void,” she snaps. “It’s because this hallway is so damn small, my neighbor told me to do it as a courtesy so that we don’t bowl each other over. Courtesy . . . maybe you’ve heard of it.”

I snort. “I should’ve known. Who the hell else would actually be scared of coming out into a HALLWAY? Probably the same person who seems to cower at the thought of her own parents coming into town.”

The way Zoey glares at me, I think I may have finally stepped over the line. I’m about to open my mouth to apologize when she suddenly surges ahead, ramming into my shoulder, and zooming past me to go thundering down the stairs.

I know exactly where she’s going. And despite her head start, no way is she getting there first.

CHAPTER 18 - ZOEY

CHAPTER 18

ZOEY

My head swells with the theme song for The Amazing Race.

I knew a woman who worked in postproduction for that show. She said the camera guys had to run, too, to keep up with the contestants and get the shots they needed. It cracked me up envisioning entire entourages booking ass in crowded cities, frantically dodging all manner of obstacles at airports and train stations, burdened with heavy, expensive equipment.

Today I’m not laughing.

I’ve learned something about Miles today: He’s the type of person who turns things around on you, takes what you’ve told him and twists it to hurt and belittle you. In other words, the exact stereotype of a New Yorker. Why had I allowed myself to think he was better than that? Was it the HankyBook that tricked me? And if so, why? In retrospect, he probably wanted to infect me with whatever plague it’s carrying. I should’ve known better; the first time we interacted he showed me his true colors. Imagine if I’d really opened up to him! The very idea of it makes me shudder.

Footsteps thunder above me and I take the stairs two steps at a time, almost tripping and falling when my foot lands wrong. Just what my broken toe needs: a sprained ankle to go with it.

He sounds fast. Fuck. I haven’t smoked pot in weeks—shouldn’t that count for something? I don’t expect to sprint like a cheetah, but in comparison to the beginning of the year I’ve been a paragon of health. And wait a second, toking is supposed to expand your lung capacity—I swear I read that somewhere—so what’s the deal with the stitch in my side and my gasping, labored breaths right now? Should I remove my laptop and toss the bag at him to slow him down?

“Did you move here so you could win?” I shout upward. “That is full-on, Shake ’n Bake CRAZY.”