Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“My bad,” I laugh.
“Sit down, slag.” She looks over my shoulder and waves for a waitress. “Catch me up. What the hell have you been up to?”
We didn’t really talk after I left Avalon Bay. As I did with most of this town, I quit cold turkey. Other than some texts here and there, I’d kept my distance, even muting her on social media so I couldn’t be tempted by her exploits.
“As it turns out, I start a new job soon. Cooper’s girlfriend is reopening The Beacon Hotel. I’m the new manager.”
“For real?” She’s incredulous at first. Then, apparently realizing there isn’t a punchline coming, she throws back a swig of her beer. “That means the next time I come to town, you’re hooking me up with a room. I think me and my dear mother have exceeded our quota of quality time.”
I grin. “Didn’t you get in last night?”
“Exactly.” Her eyes widen. “Shit, I’m sorry. I heard about your mom. You okay?”
It seems like ages ago now, though it’s only been a few months. The reminders of Mom are fewer and further between. “Yeah,” I say honestly. “I’m good. Thank you.”
“I’d have been at the funeral if I’d known. But I only heard recently.”
I don’t think she means them to, but the words come out like an accusation. She’d have been there if I’d bothered to tell her, is the subtext. If I hadn’t all but ghosted her a year ago. But that’s probably my own guilt talking.
“It’s fine, really. Was mostly a family thing. She didn’t want a big fuss.” Least of all from her kids.
Trina gets a menacing glint in her eye as she sips her drink. “You seeing much of Evan lately?”
I swallow a sigh. For just one night, can’t something be about anything but him? My head’s been on backwards since I came back to town. I’m my favorite self when I’m with him—and also my worst. Everything at both extremes wrapped up in this volatile cocktail we become.
“Sometimes, I guess. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
“You’ve been using that same line since we were fifteen.”
And I don’t feel much better equipped than I was then.
“So what’s up?” With another mouthful of beer, she plasters on her usual irreverence when she reads the heaviness closing in. “You back for good now?”
“Looks that way.” It’s strange. I don’t remember making the decision to stay. It just snuck up on me, the ties reattaching overnight while I slept. “Dad’s selling the house, so I need to find a new place soon.”
“I’ve given some thought to sticking around too.”
I snort a laugh. “Why?”
Trina always hated this town. Or rather, the people. She loved her friends fiercely, the few she kept. Beyond that, she’d have lit a match and never looked back. Or so I thought.
We’re briefly interrupted when the waitress finally makes it to our table. She looks young and flustered, a new hire struggling through the waning weeks of the summer crush. I order a club soda and ignore Trina’s judgmental eyebrow.
“I don’t know…. This place is a drag,” she says. “But it’s home, I guess.” There’s something in the way her gaze drifts to the soggy coaster, the way her fingernail picks at the corners, that suggests a deeper explanation.
“How are things?” I ask carefully. “LA not agreeing with you these days?”
“Eh, you know me. I’ve got a four-second attention span. I think maybe I’ve seen and done everything worth doing in that city.”
Only from Trina would I believe that. “You still working at the dispensary?” The least surprising part of her West Coast move was getting a job doing stuff that, around here, still gets you thrown in jail.
“Sometimes. Also bartending a little. And this guy I know, he’s a photographer, I help him out now and then, too.”
“This guy …” I watch as she dodges eye contact. “Is that a thing?”
“Sometimes.”
The conundrum of Trina is a bitter one. Few others I know manage to suck as much out of every minute of their lives as she does—eyes open and arms wide, try anything once, twice as much—and yet, at the same time, be so utterly unfulfilled. There’s a hole in the bottom of her soul, where everything good leaks out and all the worst, thickest, blackest muck clings to the sides.
“He’s an artist,” she says by way of an explanation. “His work is important to him.”
Which is the kind of thing people say when they’re making excuses for why their needs aren’t being met.
“Anyway, I didn’t tell him I was coming here. Probably still hasn’t noticed my stuff is gone.”
A wave of sympathy swells in my chest. I felt like that for a long time. I kept grasping for anything at all to satisfy me, whether it was good for me or not. How could I know unless I found out for myself, though? It takes a lot of trial and error to realize all the good advice we ignored along the way.