Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“Mom told me New York was her favorite city,” I say. “Dad and she started seeing each other there. I think they only moved here because she wanted to be close to Aunt Emilia.”
Bailey smiles, and for the first time today, I recognize the girl who taught me how to tie my shoes and rock-skip in the river by our house.
“I always think about it,” she murmurs. “Remember the time your mom told us your dad ordered her every rose from every florist on the block?”
“Yeah.” My smile is about to split my face in half.
Bailey pinks, sinking her white teeth into her bottom lip.
“A couple months ago I went down to that street to see if the florists were still there. Four out of the five are. I bought a few bouquets from each store and sent them to Mom. She put them on Rosie’s grave.”
“That was you?” My eyebrows jump. “Dad thought she had a side piece. You should’ve seen the meltdowns.”
Bailey laughs wildly. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“A little,” I laugh.
“Yikes! I thought I told you. My cognitive skills should be peaking at nineteen.”
Bailey does nice things because she wants to do them, not because she wants the recognition.
A year ago, I’d have exploded into red heart-shaped confetti at this confession. But she isn’t the same girl from a year ago.
“Thanks, Dove. That was a nice touch.” I press my fist to her arm.
She bumps her shoulder against mine and steals a spoonful of my Froyo. “Don’t be a sap, Levy.”
“Do you even know what sap means?” I quirk a brow.
“Duh. Systems, applications, and products in data processing. One of my APs was computer science, remember?” She taps her temple.
“Nerd,” I whisper-shout.
“Stupid jock.” She blows a raspberry.
We both pretend to laugh even though I’d rather take her tongue in my mouth and kiss the shit out of her.
As if on cue, both of our turtle pigeons descend from their nest, making their way to us.
Perseus and Andromeda.
Bailey chose the names. Something about great, unconditional love and overcoming obstacles together. Joke’s on her because these bitches are living rent-free in a nest I literally made for them. Privileged assholes.
Andromeda, without blue in her feathers like Perseus, is also missing a leg, so it’s easy to tell them apart. They land on the far corner of the canvas, close to us but not too close to comfort.
They know us and are happy to see us.
To Bailey, I say, “I wanna go to New York before college. Visit all the places Mom loved. Her old apartment.”
“We should do it together!” She lights up, and it feels so stupid. Making plans with this girl who isn’t even my friend anymore and isn’t even herself anymore. “Go on Tour de LeBlanc.” She wiggles her brows, putting on a horrible French accent. “St. Paul’s Chapel, Lady Liberty, Battle of Brooklyn…and here, ladies and gents, the dame Rosie LeBlanc handed Mr. Dean Cole his butt back to him!”
I laugh in spite of myself. Now she sounds like my best friend again. We were the last of the litter. The invisible kids. No issues. No drama. Perfect grades. Our SATs are crazy—mine is 1560 and Dove’s is a perfect, shiny 1600.
“How’d you find your way to a drug dealer anyway?” I can’t seem to give this thing a rest.
At my question, Bailey’s face rears back, and her nostrils flare. “Does it really matter?”
“Is that a real question?” I blink slowly. “Bastard’s going around selling people laced painkillers. Yeah, I think it matters.”
She visibly shrinks. “I didn’t catch his name, and it wasn’t on school grounds anyway.”
“What if he sells to other people? What if—”
“Ohmymarx, would you shut up?” she snaps, pulling a joint from her pocket and lighting it up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m not the one with the substance abuse genes here. Stop projecting, Cole.”
She’s back to being a bitch again.
I’m getting whiplash, but I’m starting to see this is the new version of her.
Nice and normal one moment, then a goddamn hellion the next. She’s exhibiting an addict’s behavior.
Plus, she’s only a year fucking adultier than me. Not a thirtysomething-year-old with a key to all the hard-knock truths of this universe.
My jaw locks tight. “Your mood swings more than a limp dick in a locker room these days.” My eyes drop to the lit tip of the joint. “And since when do you smoke?”
“Since I found a joint in Daria’s room—probably Penn’s—and decided to mellow down a little. What’s your problem?” She twists her face like I stink. “You were the one who offered me my first hit when we were in school.”
“That’s right.” I give her a leveled stare. “Before you were a fucking junkie.”
There. I said it. It’s out in the open, and I ain’t taking it back. All you need is to take one look at her to see that she is definitely not the same person.