Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
It’s from the University of Michigan.
Shit. Shit. Fuck.
Tearing the envelope open, I can already make out the words I don’t want to see.
Committee on Admissions and acceptance and congratulations and extraordinary achievement.
Bile hits the back of my throat because I just officially got into a crazy good football college, and if Dad finds out, my Air Force Academy dream is about as attainable as dinner with Marilyn Monroe and Jesus Christ.
I glance at my phone. Dad will be home soon. He can’t see this. He can’t find out I got in.
Shaking my head, I stomp my way up into my room.
There, I go to the one thing no one ever touches—not the cleaners, not our housekeeper, not Dad—Mom’s portrait, which is hung on my wall.
I move it slightly to the left and tuck the letter of acceptance in a rubber band, along with the other letters of acceptance I’ve ignored. Five so far. All from leading colleges.
Duke included.
I return Mom’s picture to its original position and take a step back, watching her staring at me, wondering what she’d have thought about what I just did if she were here.
Probably that I’ve become a liar.
A cheat.
A cop-out.
The same faker Bailey has become.
Caving under the pressure and making people miserable in the process.
Maybe Bailey isn’t perfect anymore.
But neither am I.
CHAPTER 18
Bailey
We’re all crammed inside a Bombardier Global on our way to Jackson Hole.
Dad co-owns a hedge fund company, Fiscal Heights Holdings, with his friends.
The firm owns the jet, which is about as environmentally friendly as setting dumpster fires in a rainforest, but I’m too tired to launch into a save-the-planet speech right now.
It’s the first time I’m seeing the entire cul-de-sac clan since I got home from New York, and I’m self-conscious to say the least.
My skin is gray, my eyes are sunken, and I’m hiding my frail body under an oversized pair of Costco pj’s.
Not exactly the symbol of beauty and sophistication.
Even though everybody is trying to act normal, I know they’re curious.
Why wouldn’t they be? Bailey Followhill—everyone’s standard—overdosed and now looks like she’s spent the last year taking a lengthy vacation in hell.
Uncle Dean and Dixie are on a love seat, locked in an intense conversation.
Uncle Vicious and Auntie Emilia are semi-making out, which would be awkward if they weren’t still mega-hot.
Uncle Trent and Auntie Edie are sipping organic juices, glancing my way with raw interest.
Racer, their son, is playing with Cayden. Knight and Luna are studying me too, waiting for a heroin needle to drop out of my sleeve or something.
Then there’s Vaughn, Lenny, and their newborn twins, Auggie and Maggie.
Lenny is tandem-feeding them while Vaughn sends violent, demonic glances at everyone, as if this entire trip were a ploy for the chance to look at his wife’s breasts.
Daria, my sister, is also here with her husband, Penn, and their almost-two-year-old, Cressida.
We haven’t spoken to each other since she tried to see me that day with Thalia.
Not for her lack of trying. And now that she is right in front of me, the guilt is so much, I can hardly breathe.
Lev is in the cockpit and hasn’t said a word to me the entire plane ride.
I keep thumbing the dove bracelet, trying to convince myself we’ll get through this, but I’m not sure anymore.
Daria is the first to penetrate the tension in the air. She tosses a hand, rolling her sapphire eyes. “Is everyone going to pretend Bailey isn’t the current bane of our existence? For Marx’s sake, she is still a Selena, even if she pulled a Hailey!”
“Was that in English?” Uncle Trent turns to Auntie Edie.
Edie sighs. “Pop culture reference.”
“Daria,” I whisper, horrified. “I’m sorry about…you know.”
Daria grins. “Apology accepted. It’s time I break the ice. Missed you, sissy!” She lunges in my direction, butting into my narrow seat.
I coil into myself, pressing my nose into my Rupi Kaur paperback.
My socked feet dig into the plush crème leather.
“Here! Ice broken.” Daria holds me as passionately and tightly as she usually holds a grudge. Which is to say I am being suffocated to death right now.
“More like you Titanic-ed right into the iceberg.” Knight sucks on his Smoothie King beverage. He literally made us all stop in Utah to get it. “Nice floats, by the way.”
“I’m going to make kirigami out of your ass using the charcuterie knife if you make another boob joke about my wife,” Penn announces sunnily. “Make it extra bloody too.”
“Mind the beige carpet,” Uncle Vicious snarls.
“You guys, can we focus on how Bails has mastered the RBF? I never thought I’d see the day.” Daria sniffs.
“What’s RBF?” Mom frowns. My insides turn inside out because my sister only has filters when she uploads a photo to Instagram.
“Resting Bitch Face,” Knight provides, at the same time sweet Luna singsongs, “Running Barefoot Foundation!”
Bless her.
“Do you mind? I’m reading.” I scowl at my older sister. I hate that Lev is in the cockpit. I always feel calmer when he’s around. I hate that too, right now.