Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
But that’s not the truth. Or at least, not all of it.
The truth is . . . I hate myself for hurting her.
Chapter 28
HOPE
By Sunday, I’m feeling slightly better. Very slightly. Mostly I think there’s only so much moping and mourning, cleaning and purging, and indulgent self-care I can do before my family starts contemplating an intervention, which they’ve most definitely done, rallying around me in an attempt to help me feel better faster.
Joy refused to go with me to the salon when I told her I was considering a new cut, and instead took me and Mom for a mani-pedi yesterday, and it felt good to replace my wedding-day french manicure with something more in line with what I’m feeling now. I chose bright red. Not quite the color of bloodshed, roses, or love, but close. When I look at my hands now, I feel a little bolder, a little stronger. And Joy was right—“new-me nails” are infinitely better than a “broken-heart bob.”
They’ve also helped by feeding me. Dad’s been on meat duty all day, babysitting a pork butt in his smoker. An hour ago, he started cooking corn on the cob and summer squash on the grill too. And now it’s almost time for a family dinner, in which I hope to talk about anything other than Ben, why he left, or how I’m feeling, which I think they’ll respect.
No, I still haven’t told them Ben’s big secret, though it’s been weird not to. We’re an open family, sharing more than is probably healthy, if you ask some therapists, but it’s always worked for us.
When I showed up on the front steps with angry tears streaming down my face, Mom had simply welcomed me into her arms and soothed the pain away, giving me time and space to tell her what happened when I’m ready. Dad and Shep asked if Ben needed “dealing with,” and when I said no, they dropped it, too, though there’ve been a lot of sideways glances and concerned looks. They’ve all been tiptoeing around me. They know heartbreak when they see it.
I’m circling the kitchen table, setting out plates and silverware for dinner, when I feel my phone vibrate in my back pocket. I pull it out and see a text from an unknown number.
Monday 9pm.
Below, there’s a dropped map dot.
I type back, Who is this?
In answer, I get back a purple devil emoji. I don’t have to think about that one. It’s Sean.
I send a middle-finger emoji, feeling like this is a stupid high school fight.
He sends me a link to a major airline. I know better than to click on links from untrustworthy people. It’s definitely a virus or malware disguised as Delta Airlines. But my thumb doesn’t listen to reason, and I click it before I can stop myself. It pulls up a flight confirmation in my name, landing at LAX Monday afternoon.
Lose my number.
I fucked up. I’m sorry. He needs you.
Has hell frozen over? It must’ve, because the devil incarnate is not only admitting wrongdoing but also apologizing.
What do you mean?
Is Ben okay?
I don’t get a response, so I text again.
Is Ben okay?
And like the purebred asshole Sean is, he doesn’t respond again. And I know why. He’s manipulating me by not answering. But just because I know I’m being manipulated doesn’t mean it isn’t working, damnit.
“Are you texting with He Who Shall Not Be Named?” Joy quips as she comes into the kitchen.
Still staring at my phone, waiting for Sean to reply, I shake my head. “No. Sean. He says Ben needs me. He sent me a plane ticket to LA.” I hold it up to show her, and her eyes practically bug out of her head.
“Just like that,” she says, snapping her fingers. Then she sees the map dot. “Where’s that?”
“Um . . . I don’t know yet.” I click on it, and it opens up a map, zooming in until I can see that it’s a club. The Cobra Room. “Oh, uh, he probably wants to meet me there for . . . something.” I can’t think fast enough to figure out a cover story, and Joy arches a brow, staring at me in a decent imitation of Mom’s patented Mom glare.
“Probably because Midnight Destruction just announced a top-secret, VIP-invitation-only show to tease their new album titled Losing Hope?” she suggests dryly.
“What?” I shriek. And then realize that I shouldn’t know or care about that. “I mean, who’s that?” But my fingers are flying over my phone as I search for the information she just shared.
She lets out a heavy sigh, almost sounding disappointed in me. “I swear you forget that in addition to being your awesome sister and the better half of our twinset, I’m an actual journalist.” She ticks off her professional observations on newly black stiletto nails with a tiny rhinestone on the tip of each finger. “You’ve been playing the same songs on repeat for days. And not your typical sad breakup songs, but screaming heavy stuff that hurts my ears and isn’t your style at all. And you’ve been sleeping in Ben’s T-shirt every night. One plus one, and a little googling, and voilà, your man’s not a secret prince of a foreign country, but of darkness and something called nu metalcore.”