Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
It was Drew. The queen of overreaction. Of course she left.
I swiped a hand down my face and shook my head. “Drew...I guess.”
“She can’t just keep giving me money, Bellamy. She’s…”
“I know.”
Mom glanced at Arlo, sobbing on my bed, and frowned. “Why is he crying?”
“Because she…” And what was I supposed to say--Drew left, and upset Arlo even more.
She was having a Drew moment, and by the afternoon, I’d have her back over here, pinned underneath me. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be fine.”
Mom stood there, glancing from me to Arlo, then back. “I promise, Mom. It’s fine, she went to work and…” I was going to kill her when she came back. Leaving Arlo a note was over the top.
Mom gave a half nod, then said she was going to start breakfast.
The second I heard her in the kitchen, I glanced at Arlo.
“Where’s the note, buddy.”
“In my room. On my dresser.” His muffled sob came from the pillow.
I went to his room and grabbed the note, skimming over it. Cryptic as fuck--but at least he got an I love you. I stormed back to my room and shot off a text: Seriously? Arlo’s crying. WTH are you?
Message not delivered.
And that--That made me chuck my phone at the wall.
* * *
Ten hours later, she hadn’t come home.
I was shitfaced at Hendrix’s house when she finally texted back.
Baby Girl: I didn’t mean to make him cry
Me: Where are you, Drew?
Baby Girl: France.
France? My grip on my phone tightened, my heartbeat pulsing behind my eyes. That was a joke. It had to be. How long did it even take to fly across the freaking Atlantic?
Me: You’re kidding. Right?
Minutes passed, my knee bouncing like a jackhammer.
We’d gotten in, not even in a fight. Not even a freaking fight, and she left and went to France? Not to Nora’s house. Not back to her dad’s or even a five-fucking-star hotel two cities over. France. Because that was Drew.
Me: Seriously, Drew. France!
Me: You want to get all pissy at me for trying to make sure you know what the hell you’re getting into with being poor
Me: And you just leave. And go to France
Me: France
Me: FUCKING FRANCE!!!!!
Hendrix handed me a shot of whiskey, shaking his head. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.” He stared down at my phone, then snorted. “Never have I ever had a demon spawn Medusa fuck off to France to break up with me,” He cackled, then kicked me. “Drink, you dickhead. Because that’s you!”
I slammed the shot, then chucked the empty glass at him before going back to my phone. I wanted a reaction. Something because this--This hurt like a bitch.
I was drinking so I wouldn’t cry, and my chest was all tight. All I could do was think about her, because I could still smell her on my shirt. And I almost, almost told her I loved her last night because I felt that bad that she thought I would want her to leave. And then she does this...
Me: So what, are you too pussy to break up with me, Drew? That what it is?
Me: Fuck off to France so you don’t have to break up with me?
Baby Girl: I don’t want you to resent me.
Resent her? For what?
Hendrix dropped beside me on the couch, this time handing me the bottle of whiskey. “There are two ways to handle this. Listen to Sarah McLachlan and cry like a bitch, or watch porn.”
I glared at him.
“Wait. Pink Floyd goes with The Wizard of Oz so maybe…” He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, then the stereo. “Arms of the Angel” blared through the speakers as some muscled up guy took a girl in a nurse’s outfit, doggy style.
“If this isn’t art,” he said. “I don’t know what is.”
And I just stared at my phone, wishing I could hate her. But I never would.
53
Drew
The warm, Mediterranean breeze swept around me as I stood at the wooden door of Mom’s villa. And from the smile on her completely made-up face when she answered in her silk robe, she was far too happy to have me.
She passed me her glass of wine the second I stepped inside. “You look terrible, darling.”
I was broken-hearted and jet-lagged, what did she expect me to look like?
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes.
She handed my bag off to Marco, the butler, and guided me inside. I downed my wine before I even reached the kitchen, and Mom topped me right up.
That’s how that went for the rest of the evening.
I sat by the pool, on a sun lounger, next to my mom, staring out over the city that swept into the sea while I got drunk. And although she drank more than me, she didn’t get drunk because the woman had a ninety to ten wine to blood ratio in her veins.