Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“Fine. It’s Jerry. My mom’s boyfriend. Pimp. Dealer.”
And Jerry was going to get his ass beat. I handed the book back to her.
“That’s it. No death threats? No chest-beating?” She hesitated before opening the sketchbook.
“What’s the worst memory you have?”
She stilled, though her gaze never lifted from the paper in front of her. “My eighth birthday, my mom overdosed the first time. Next.”
Something about how fast she answered—like it was almost rehearsed—bothered me. She went to turn the page, but I put my hand over it. “I can’t lie to you with these. Don’t lie to me.”
She closed her eyes and dragged a hand through her hair. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Fine. My worst memory is the first time one of my mom’s boyfriends tried to rape me,” she said in a rush, and I swallowed. “I was twelve.”
My pulse kicked up, and there was a moment where I wasn’t sure I wanted to know everything about her.
When she opened her eyes, they were hard and unreadable. “Still want to know about me?” There was a bite to her tone, anger, fear...I wasn’t sure.
I stared at my sketchbook, thinking. There were pictures and lines, short sentences, and thoughts that told more than my lips ever would. “Depends on how much you want us to know about each other.” I tapped the book in her hands. “It’s not pretty.”
“The truth never is. Anything pretty is always a lie.” She went to my bed and settled against the headboard before she flipped to the next page.
“Do you like yourself?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, confusion wrinkling her brow.
I fell onto the mattress beside her, looking over her shoulder at the drawing of gnarled up trees and wolves, then flipped the page for her, sweeping a hand over the picture of gallows, a handful of pills, and a gun. She touched her fingers to the paper as if the objects were real. “Do you wish you were like them?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Barrington.” As much as we hated them, we’d be stupid not to wish we had semi-functional families and money. I just hoped that had we been that lucky, we would have appreciated it instead of being entitled pricks.
“Don’t we all at some point? I hate them, but I have to ask myself if I’m not really just bitter that they got a better hand. I think that if I had their money, it wouldn’t make me an asshole. The same way they probably don’t think they’re assholes.”
Next page. Next question.
“Why do you want to come off like the bad girl?”
Her gaze lifted from the paper on a half-smile. “Are you telling me I’m doing a bad job?”
“Pretty much.”
“I don’t like people.”
“No shit,” I said. “But you still didn’t answer the question.”
“I don’t like needing people. And I’m not someone for anyone to rely on. ”
“Why?”
She turned the page. Demons and devils crawled through a ribcage filled with spiders' webs.
“Because people always let you down.” She hesitated for a second. “Human connection is a lie we tell ourselves we need. We don’t need anyone but ourselves, and it’s best that way.”
Even for me, that was fucking sad. “You want to be alone then?”
The papers rustled when she flipped them. “I just want something real.”
“And how will you know when something is real?”
Another flip of the page to a pencil drawing of a screaming head inside a screaming head inside a screaming head, until there was nothing but a black void.
“Do you draw what you feel?” she asked.
“Avoiding my question?” I touched a hand to the page. “It’s the only way I can draw. Otherwise, it’s just shit.”
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at a spot on the wall. “I don’t know. I guess...it’s real when you trust someone.”
I moved my hand, and she went to the next drawing. And before I even realized that I had verbalized it, I asked her, “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” Another flipped page.
“Why?”
Her fingers gripped the edge of the book, and this time she hesitated before her gaze met mine. “Because you gave a shit. And no one else ever has.”
I could sense how exposed she was. My pulse pounded a little harder, words on the tip of my tongue I wasn’t sure I wanted to spit out. I took the notebook out of Monroe’s hand and placed it on the nightstand. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever given a shit about.” I grabbed her hips and pulled her on top of me.
Her hands went to my face. “Good.” And then she kissed me.
20
Monroe
The morning sun crept over the top of Frank’s Famous Chicken. I could not deal with the thick smell of fried food this early.
Despite my telling him I didn’t want anything, Zepp shoved a tray of food in front of me when he fell into the booth. I glanced at the chicken peeking out from the biscuit, the breading shiny with grease.