Total pages in book: 177
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 694(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
I hand it to her. “Go buy groceries and text my brothers to be home by six for dinner. No stopping at bars.”
She takes the card. “What do you want me to make?”
“I’m cooking.”
Her arms fall, and for a second she looks like she’s going to drop the clothes. I shove the pants back at her and start to walk away.
“And …” I fire back. “Start organizing a … like a block party or something. Let’s get everyone together. The whole Bay.”
Her eyes bug out again.
I narrow mine. “Are you writing this down?”
She fumbles for a second and then gestures to her head. “I got it,” she mumbles.
I walk toward the bathroom but point to the suit in her hands as I go. “And have that cleaned.”
“Are you sure?”
I shoot her a look before I close the door, knowing she can smell Krisjen’s perfume on it as well as I can.
I twist the shower handle, pull off the towel, and step under the spray, inhaling hard as the cold water rushes over my skin.
I force full, deep breaths, even, in and out, as I fist my hands and feel the rush of the ice charging my body.
Just one more day.
I can stay for one more day.
Like my mom did.
29
Krisjen
I wanted to leave with him—the second he walked away.
But how could this have not been about revenge? How could he not hate everything I reminded him of?
I sit against the wall, hugging my knees and feeling the shorts and sweatshirt that I threw on, but have no idea if it’s the Florida State one or the Hilton Head one. It’s gray.
All the times he wouldn’t look at me. Speak to me. Of course.
It wasn’t because I was a Saint. It was because I was me. Part of her. He’d look at me and see her hair. Her nose.
A tear spills over, dripping down my face. He couldn’t stand the sight of me.
I lock my fingers together and bow my head into my hands, shaking with cries I won’t let out.
He must’ve thought I was a real piece of work, playing at his house like it was some kind of fucking theme park.
But when he did look at me …
When I found him racked with pain and saw the tears.
When he held on to me at night and then quickly let me go when he’d wake up and realize.
And then go right back to wrapping himself around me the next night. And the next. And the next.
When he finally started talking to me, and wanted only me near him. Only me.
He tried not to see me. Tried not to get close. Tried not to look at me or talk to me.
He didn’t want revenge.
He didn’t want me to find out and knew I would at some point. He knew I’d hurt him when I did.
I never deserved him.
Lifting my head, I watch my curtains blow in the breeze pouring into my dark room. It can’t be much past noon, but the clouds hang low outside, making the light on my walls gray with hues of blue.
I follow the light past the fabric hanging from my four-post bed and over the keepsakes—a carousel, stuffed animals, and pictures of parties, trips, and ceremonies. Past the displays of medals and ribbons I got for every swim meet or spelling bee I participated in.
Because every artifact was like another addition to the résumé of my life that proved I was alive. That I did things. That I was accomplished, and that made me valuable.
Proving I was living my best life distracted me from the realization that this room could never fit the proof of all my failures.
And knowing now that only one matters.
Rising to my feet, I wipe a tear from under my eye and cross the room. I rip the bulletin board off the wall, followed by my rack of karate belts from when I was eight. The last five are missing, because I quit, but I still display them like it was some big deal.
I throw the carousel onto my bed, scoop up every stuffed animal, and throw any picture that doesn’t have someone I love in it into the pile. I grab hold of my sheer bed curtains and start yanking, tearing them away, balling them up, and adding them to the junk. Gathering up the four corners of my blanket, I pull the sack off my bed and stuff it in my closet. Some of it will get disposed of in the garbage, and some things I’m not sure if I ever want to see again. I just want them out of sight right now.
I stare in the mirror, seeing myself for the first time all morning. His mark is on my neck, and my lips are puffy. I fold them between my teeth, noticing how sore they are. I didn’t notice when I woke up with him this morning. I pull my phone out of my back pocket—no calls or texts.