Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I’m sitting with Becca,” Shane announces. He leans close and, in a quieter voice, adds, “If you get scared and need to hold my hand, you can.”
While I’ve typically found him irritating, today he’s in a playful mood and almost charming. I just laugh and swat him away.
I don’t hold his hand, and I’m only scared on the first hill. After that, it’s pure exhilaration, and I love every bit of it — the thrilling, fast curves, the tall peaks, and the wonderful weightless feeling of rushing down the hills.
“Can we go again?” I say as soon as we step off.
Shane laughs, and even Marcos smiles at my response, and the men indulge me, leading me back in line for another go.
The second ride is even better than the first. I sit next to Devin, who keeps his hands up in the air, and whoops in excited delight during the best parts. When we pull back into the station, I feel happier and more alive than I can ever remember.
“Let’s do something bigger,” Khalil suggests when we regroup past the ride’s exit.
“Okay, but I need a restroom break first.”
I spot one nearby, and as I head in that direction, my phone buzzes double time in my pocket. I should have ignored it. I should have known better.
31
Colder and darker
As soon as I start reading, the words begin to blur.
You hateful little bitch. I gave birth to you, and now you’re too good to even send a message to me. I know you can help. I know you have the money. My neighbor Betty said she saw you down at Rusty’s, shaking your tits and ass to earn tips.
Even as I’m reading, another one comes in.
You’re such a filthy little slut. I raised you better than that. I raised you to help your family but now you act like you don’t even know us. Like you’re better than us. Well you’re not. You’re a selfish little whore.
I don’t make it to the restroom. Instead, I crumble against the side of a building, my chest so tight that I think it may burst. My head hurts and my ears are ringing, and any joy that I’d felt a few minutes ago is so distant that it may as well be another lifetime.
I left home as soon as I was old enough. I would have liked to get further away, but I wanted to stay close for my sister’s sake. I purposely never told my mom where I was living, but it doesn’t matter, because it turns out she can break me with a few text messages.
Horrible memories, that I keep buried deep, push right to the surface like they just happened yesterday. Good times with my mother that turned dark on a dime when something I did or said made her snap, vicious arguments, nasty comments, and then silent treatment that would go on for weeks.
My phone, clenched tightly in my fist, buzzes again.
I’m only asking for $100. Or $200. Stop being so fucking selfish, Rebecca.
I fight the impulse to hurl the device onto the hard pavement. I thought getting away from her would let me forget, but it doesn’t work that way. Even when she’s not hounding me for money, her voice is always in my head, telling me what I’m doing wrong and reminding me of all the ways I’m a bad person.
The worst thing is when she tells me I’m just like her.
I start typing out a response, barely able to see through my tear-filled eyes, when someone puts their hand on my shoulder.
“Becca? What’s wrong?”
It’s Devin, his dark eyes wide with concern.
I stiffen, my mind calculating the odds of covering my distress and quickly realizing it’s hopeless. Instead, I crumble, an ugly sob bursting out of me.
Devin’s arms immediately go around me, one hand on my head, sheltering me against his chest, the other making long, soothing strokes on my back.
His offer of comfort coming so quickly and easily only makes me cry harder, my tears soaking through the cotton of his shirt.
“What can I do to help?” he asks after a minute of holding me and letting me cry.
I shake my head, my tears starting to dry. “Nothing.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s a large wet spot on his shirt now. I pluck at the fabric, pulling it from his skin, feeling the warmth and solidity of his chest beneath it. “No,” I say. “Maybe later.”
“Do you want to go home? We can leave.”
I’m so grateful for his kindness that tears threaten to start again. I shake my head and try to give him a smile to let him know I’m okay. “I’m having a good time. There’s just … stuff going on in my family that I’m having to deal with.”
“I’m here for you anytime, Becca.”