Sonny, you belong to New York. Our love is strong. And more than a little obsessive.

The Flower Boy

Demo version limitation

The Secret Weapon

Demo version limitation

Lies Everyone Knows

Demo version limitation

THE FEVER

Eric Hall was a nice Southern boy, from Winston-Salem, North Carolina—once the strapping, blond star of his high school theater department. He seemed to drag along puffy white clouds and blue skies from some other corner of the earth. He was the kind of guy who smiled easily, who you imagined smelled of fresh-cut grass and his grandma’s peach cobbler, who tanned on the first day of summer, who was liked by all who met him. You could easily picture him on a horse, something Scarlett did a little too frequently, and not always appropriately dressed in equestrian gear.

He’d gotten a haircut in the last few days. She liked it a little longer, but this was good. Cleaner. Crisper. With the sunned-out blondish end bits clipped off. Being a blonde herself, Scarlett was kind of bored of the color. The darkness was nice, and unfamiliar. She heard herself speaking, but there was a mumbled roar covering up the words in her mind. It must have been something about coming inside.

“She sent around business cards to the cast,” he said. “I thought I’d stop by. Just finished class. And when I saw you walking down the street with…”

“Murray,” Scarlett said, the name strangled in her throat.

“What?”

That was from Murray the doorman, who was watching them with ill-concealed disgust.

“Not, no…”

Scarlett was stuttering a little. She took a second to control her voice.

“Not you. The dog. The dog is Murray.”

“That dog’s name is Murray?” Murray asked.

Eric picked up on Scarlett’s signal that they should move quickly, quickly to the elevator. She tucked Murray the dog under her arm like a football. The elevator doors closed silently as velvet curtains, not like the great, end-of-the-world squawk that the gates of the Hopewell elevator made.

“He didn’t like that answer,” Eric said.

“He’s not a Murray fan,” Scarlett explained. “Also, his name is Murray.”

“Is that a coincidence?”

“No,” Scarlett said. “It’s just my boss making a statement.”

“Amy’s a piece of work.”

On that note of truth, the doors opened again, and the nineteenth floor hallway awaited them. Mrs. Amberson probably wasn’t even here. Scarlett knew she should mention this. Except that she had now lost the ability to speak, and all she could do was embark on the death march down the thick blue carpet to 19D, Eric sauntering just behind her, Murray stepping on her feet in his haste to get to shelter. She opened the door with her key, which Eric noted with a little tuck-up of the chin.

“Own key, huh? She couldn’t do anything without you.”