Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
"She did?"
She nods. "I understand better what happened, how I reacted. Why it happened. I tried the same way, once, when I was a girl. Before I met your father. I thought it was my lack of options. It was. But it always is. It's always the same; that seems like the best option."
"What happened?"
"You want to talk about this now?" she asks.
"Now."
"Okay. But we need tea for this. Put on the chai."
I do.
And we talk until Julie and Dad return from the batting cages. They see us, eyes puffy from tears, cheeks red from laughter, and they trade a look I haven't seen in ages.
Mom and Imogen are up to it again.
We would watch her Chinese soaps, the ones dubbed in Vietnamese, up until she decided we needed to be "normal" and switched to Shonda shows.
But the conversations—
They're an old habit too.
One that was always ours. That Dad and Julie never understood.
For the first time in a long time, I steer the conversation at dinner. I talk about my classes and my ideas for our vacation and my plans for next year.
I walk the beach with Julie. I tell her what happened with Patrick.
All of it.
She pulls out her phone. "I figured it out after we talked. I guess I'd seen it for a while. I knew, but I didn't know. You know?"
I do.
"Then I found your site and I… I don't know. I guess I see why he kept reading. You're a really good writer."
My cheeks flush. From the flattery. And the knowledge my sister reads my site. Every sexual thing. Every ugly thing. Every beautiful thing.
"You haven't checked in all week?"
I shake my head.
"So you didn't see this?"
"See what?"
She shows me a comment on my latest post.
Fair is Fair.
From OneTrickPony
With a link to another journal site.
His.
And it's already filled with entries.
"You've been reading this?" I ask.
She nods.
"Stop."
"It's public."
"Stop reading his," I say. "It's for me."
She smiles.
"What?"
"You love him."
"Shut up."
"So, you forgive him?" she asks.
"I don't know yet."
"I think you do."
Chapter Forty-Nine
"Start at the Beginning."
By One Trick Pony
Sunday July 31st, 3 P.M.
Dear Diary,
She doesn't start this way, but D did. M too.
I know, I know, what kind of monster reads both his sisters' diaries? And his girlfriend's diary?
A curious one.
I have an excuse for hers. Really. I don't want to spin excuses. But I have reasons.
I needed to understand.
After D died, I needed to understand. I would have done anything to understand. And her site—D was a subscriber—dropped in my lap.
Who could have turned away?
She's a great writer too. Witty and smart and brave as hell.
She offered me her heart, and I drank with greedy sips.
Those are reasons.
And this is the story I tell myself, the story I've told myself again and again.
It feels true.
But I know there's more.
Somewhere.
"Start at the Beginning. Again."
Posted by One Trick Pony
Tuesday August 2nd, 8 P.M.
Dear Diary,
This is hard. How does she go for hundreds of words? Thousands?
There is something about the feeling of putting words on paper.
It releases them.
But there's more to say. A lot more.
I don't spin words the way she does. I don't spin much.
Maybe I can post a drawing. Maybe that will make some kind of sense.
But how would it look?
A lost boy, running back and forth, alternating between trying to hide from his pain and trying to understand it.
Running to the guy he used to be?
The shallow dude who loved to keep it casual.
I didn't think about anything besides drawing, drinking, and fucking.
That isn't completely true. I had moments, especially with my sisters, but I hid from them.
I was scared of them.
And, after D died, I couldn't hide anymore. Not with my usual methods—work and women.
I needed more. Enough alcohol to forget.
It worked for a while. Then it didn't.
I went deeper into my head.
I felt the pretense.
There's a reason so many pop songs are about partying. It's so you don't stop to ask yourself, "What the hell am I doing here? Why am I doing this?"
I was no longer the guy who rocked along to the incomprehensible Top 40 songs.
I heard the lyrics.
I heard my sisters arguing about which of the songs at a party were more pointless.
I'd heard that before. In person, in text, in my head. But it had never hurt before. It always made me smile. Oh, D and M at it again.
It became, D can never tell me this again.
She's gone.
She's gone, and she'd hate the guy I've become.
She's gone, and she hurt all that time, and she didn't know how to tell me.
And, yeah, some of that is on her. But a lot of it is on me too.
How could she tell a guy who ran from any hint of depth that she was depressed? Suicidal?
Who could?
I didn't see that.
For a long time, I didn't see that. I'm not even sure when I saw it.