Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Married?” She frowned, her mouth clamping around an airy piece of buttery cake. “No, Callichka. Dylan didn’t get married.”
“She’s pregnant.” I gestured to my ex–best friend, as though this fact couldn’t be detected from Neptune. I knew I sounded judgmental. Plenty of people had children out of wedlock. This wasn’t the forties. But Dylan had always wanted a grand wedding. With a golden carriage and unicorns and white doves and five different dresses. She’d had ripped Vogue pages folded neatly inside her underwear drawer with flower decoration inspiration, like Pinterest didn’t exist.
“That’s right, Callichka. But the wedding ceremony isn’t how babies are made. I thought you knew that?” She frowned, cocking her head. “We never discussed the birds and the bees, did we?”
“Whose baby?” I looked around us frantically.
She stared at me like I was insane. “Why, Tucker Reid’s, of course. Who else?”
Who else? Good question. Maybe anyone who didn’t threaten to wedgie us all throughout high school.
Were they together now? When had it started? The night she’d caught me and Row? And how had Row even agreed to this? He was very trigger-happy when it came to guys he deemed unworthy of his sister. Which was every human alive, by the way. I was pretty sure Tucker’s nose and Row’s fist were intimately acquainted.
Also—Dylan had sex with Tucker Reid? He was a shithead but…kind of hot? I wanted to dissect that piece of juicy information immediately and at length. Problem was, it was Dylan I wanted to discuss it with.
Tucker. Freaking. Reid. I couldn’t get over the revelation.
He was our bully. Well, I guess now, technically, he was only my bully. Evidence suggested he no longer unpinned the Goosebumps pinback buttons from Dylan’s JanSport and “accidentally” sneezed into the food on her tray at the cafeteria.
As if sensing our presence, Row and Dylan turned their heads in unison, catching sight of me and Mom.
Forever a responsible, sensible adult, I decided now was a good time to swivel toward the person behind me and launch into an avalanche of incoherent words to appear busy and unaffected. I didn’t want either of them to know how terrified I was of a showdown with them.
My poor victim was Lyle Cooper, a tiny carpenter in his seventies who used to have fish and chips with Dad every Sunday over beer.
“Lyle. Wow. Haven’t seen you in a long time. Let’s catch up!”
I was acutely aware of Row and Dylan as they sliced through the throng, ambling to my corner of the room. More accurately, Row was ambling and Dylan was wobbling. They stopped to talk to Mom, who stood right beside me, and I tried to simultaneously converse with Lyle and eavesdrop on their conversation.
“…sorry for your loss, Mrs. Litvin. Mom sends her regards…” Dylan.
“…pain can only be dulled by time, and you know we’re always here for you…” Also Dylan.
“…Artem was the first person to truly believe in me,” I heard Row say in his bottomless baritone that licked at my skin like fire. “He saw my potential, made me work for things; they say every kid needs one grown-up to love them and one to believe in them. My mother loved me. But Artem? He believed in me.”
My mouth kept on moving, and it occurred to me that I was talking to Lyle and that he was listening, though not with great enthusiasm. A troubled frown engraved his crumpled forehead, and he kept sloping his head back and forth. Was I even speaking in English?
“…all I’m saying is Meat Loaf shouldn’t have called it ‘I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That)’ because what’s even the point?” I rambled. Oh God. Someone shut me up. Immediately. “Well, Mr. Meat Loaf, clearly, you won’t do anything for love. There’s no exception to the word anything. Everything is kind of baked into the cake, you know? The song should’ve been called ‘I Would Do Most Things for Love.’ But I guess that would have been less catchy. It’s all about the marketing.”
In my periphery, I caught Row pressing his knuckles to his mouth, enjoying my first-degree murder of whatever coolness I had left.
“Ya know, I was never a big Meat Loaf fan.” Lyle took a pull of his Coors, his eyes searching for an escape route from the conversation. “The dish? Sure. Not so much the artist. Springsteen fan, myself.”
His eyes crinkled with affection, like I was a six-year-old trying to spell a new word. “Don’t worry, Calla.” He patted my arm, and I forced myself not to wince and jerk away. “You don’t need to be smart. You’re mighty pretty, just like your ma.”
Dylan chose that moment to unzip her colorful, wet windbreaker and shake it in my general direction. Raindrops caught my dress and peppered my eyes.
“Oops. Clumsy me,” Dylan singsonged, no trace of regret in her airy tone. “It’s been raining like a bitch today, huh?”