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)
Bucket list: bungee jump —Cal.
Bucket list: visit all 50 states —Dy.
Birthday wish: the perfect ’90s CD, burned especially for me —Cal.
Bucket list: flash a president —Dy.
I tilted my head, frowning. How much weed had we smoked senior year? Too much was the probable answer.
Birthday wish: make me the best dessert ever using only ingredients that start with an M —Dy.
I went through the box the entire night, alternating between giggling and sobbing.
Bucket list: kiss Stephen Henry. And Kyle Cowen. And Ray Mohringer —Cal.
A miserable smile slashed my face. Teenage Cal had pretended to be boy-crazy. I didn’t even remember these boys’ faces and definitely hadn’t wanted to kiss them for real. But I had longed to appear normal, like other girls. Dylan had been privy to all of my made-up crushes during high school. I’d fed her lies—about who I liked, who I wanted to kiss and date; no wonder she hated that I’d hooked up with Row. She thought her brother was just another notch in my belt.
Birthday wish: cake made out of something gross like broccoli or cauliflower so I can force everyone to “celebrate” with me by eating it —Cal.
This last one made my heart stop in my chest. Three years ago, on my birthday, I had gotten a special delivery of a gross cake during a shift at the restaurant where I had been working. It had had broccoli, cream cheese, rhubarb, and a few other cake-looking ingredients and had actually been surprisingly decent. It had tasted like a veggie casserole.
I had figured it was a joke my mom had played on me and hadn’t worried too much when she’d vehemently denied sending it.
Could Dylan be the one who had sent it?
Was that her way of reaching out to me? Had I missed this crucial sign?
Well, I wasn’t missing any more of them. I was going to win Dylan’s friendship back.
As soon as the sun pierced through the clouds, I started working.
CAL
oBITCHuary: I think I’m going to make a move.
McMonster: Like…ask a guy out?
oBITCHuary: OMFG NO. I’m going to try to win my old best friend back.
McMonster: Sweet.
McMonster: What made you grow apart?
oBITCHuary: Ugh. I did something stupid.
McMonster: ?
oBITCHuary: Her brother.
McMonster: ??
oBITCHuary: Jk. He is not stupid. Just scary. And hot. And scary. We slept together.
McMonster: Is he why you are afraid of men?
oBITCHuary: Actually, no. In fact, he is the only person I’ve managed to be intimate with since I got scared off in the first place.
McMonster: Sounds like a nice guy.
oBITCHuary: Nice? No. Good? Yes. There’s a difference between the two. He taught me the hard way.
CAL
“Basket Case”—Green Day
It was a humbling experience, standing in the pissing rain on Dylan’s doorstep with a baking dish swathed in foil, shivering in my ladybug rainboots as Zeta Casablancas regarded me with the suspicion of a prison guard.
“Calla, cucciolotta, I am so sorry for your loss.” She sniffled through the tiny crack in the door.
Not sorry enough to let me in, I thought uncharitably.
“Is she waiting for you?” She peered beyond my shoulder, still blocking the entryway.
Mrs. Casablancas was a distrustful woman, though I had a nagging feeling she hadn’t always been this way. Zeta was as tall as treetops and as glamorous as the sun. She had given up her career in Milan to move here with Dylan’s late father, Doug, after meeting him on a night out in New York. Someone who up and left their entire world to enter someone else’s couldn’t be a person with trust issues, right? Something had made her the way she was today. I couldn’t recall one time I’d seen her happy. Growing up, I’d always assumed she missed her family in Italy.
“Uhm, well, not exactly.” I shivered, drenched to the bone. Mrs. Casablancas made no move to let me in. It stung, because she used to love me like a daughter. Used to braid my hair and laugh at things I said (most of them weren’t jokes, but still).
“Dylan is pregnant. It’s not good for her to get too excited,” Zeta explained.
“I just want to apologize.” I bent my knees, not above begging.
“For what?”
Screwing your son.
“Our…misunderstanding five years ago.”
Her gaze lingered on my face, fingernails drumming on the old wood, their sound pleasant but unnerving. She sighed. “I’ll go check if she’s accepting visitors.”
“Thank you.”
“If I don’t come back in three minutes, leave.”
“Yes, ma’am. I promise.”
The door slammed in my face. I proceeded to dance in place in an attempt to dodge the rain. Spoiler alert—it did not work. The Casablancases’ house was a twenty-minute walk from mine, nestled at the foot of the tree-covered mountains. The place was a far cry from the pastel-colored historic structures of the street my family resided on. This felt more like a cabin in the middle of the forest. A great spot for a murder-mystery plot.