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)
My fingers itch to rip the seam of my suitcase and take my pills out.
Marx, can’t I have one moment for myself?
“Do you want me to stay and keep you company?” Dad suggests. “We can catch a movie. Veg out in front of the TV like we used to.”
“Lev and I have some stuff to talk about.” I shake my head. “Thanks, though.”
“You’re sure he isn’t overstepping?” Dad studies me intently. “Just because you grew up together and he means well, doesn’t mean kid’s got any idea what he’s doing.”
“Yes, Dad, I’m sure. If he were bad for my psyche, I would tell you.”
“I love you, Bails.”
“I love you too, Captain Rando.”
“You’ll get through this.” His voice is steady, solemn. “Impossible is basically possible with some redundant letters.”
“Um, this is not how language works.” And then, because my head is a jumbled mess and I truly do feel lost in these bones I grew up in, I say, “It just feels so stupid that I made it this far without any issues, and at age nineteen I’m about to lose everything I worked for.”
“It’s not the years that age us, baby. It’s the experience that comes with them.” The look he gives me is disarming. “You’re evolving, honey. And every up has a down. Smart people turn those downshifts into learning curves.”
Dad studies me for a beat, then shakes his head.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket and puts “Be Alright” by Dean Lewis on, and now I really want to cry because he remembers. Remembers this was the first slow song I ever danced to. With him.
He was a chaperone at a freshman ball and the song came on and I loved it so much, but no boy wanted to ask me to dance in front of my father…so he did.
Dad did it right too. No shortcuts. Walked over. Asked me gingerly. Timidly.
All my girlfriends swooned. He spun me on the dance floor, dipped me down, making me laugh, and told me I was the most beautiful girl in the room.
And I believed him.
Because to him, I knew I was.
Dad opens his palm in my direction, a humble smile on his face. “I know you’re a professional dancer and I’m just an old man with his heart on his sleeve, but would you do me the honor?”
Wordlessly, I put my palm in his. He drops his phone on the bed, and I press my head to his chest, burrowing into his warmth.
I close my eyes and move to the rhythm of the song, feeling so heavy with emotions, the moment so bittersweet it takes my breath away.
“Are you mad I stole your first dance?” His breath tickles at the baby hair fanning my forehead.
“Are you kidding me?” I squeeze him tight. “What a privilege, to have your first dance with the one boy you’ll always love the most.”
“What about Lev?” he asks after a beat.
I think about my first kiss. My first time. All with people who weren’t Lev. “I think my destiny is that Lev will be my second everything.” I sigh.
“Second,” Dad says. “And if you wanna know my prediction—last.”
For one moment—just a brief one—there are no painkillers.
No pain.
No Juilliard.
No Thalia.
No anxiety, panic attacks, crippling expectation, and confusion.
There’s only Dad and me.
And the silent promise everything will be okay.
CHAPTER 20
Bailey
Everything is not okay.
Everything is far from being okay.
In fact, okay is not currently even in the same universe.
My entire existence is in pain, my mouth is dry, and it must be a hundred thousand degrees in this place.
“Is it just me, or is it superhot in here?” I’m stomping across the landing of Uncle Vicious’s Jackson Hole mansion.
Cayden, Sissi, and the twins are upstairs with their nannies.
It’s just Lev and me, and Lev has been trying to get me to watch Everything Everywhere All at Once, but I keep wandering off from the couch.
I just wish he would give me one moment alone so I could pop a few pills and breathe normal again.
I’m on the verge of a panic attack from the overwhelming emotions slamming into me all at once now that the Xanax and Vicodin are out of reach.
Lev stands up slowly, leaning a hip on the wall, eyes hooded.
He’s more cut than shredded lettuce, in a white V-neck and black sweatpants. “It’s sixty-eight degrees according to the thermostat.” He runs his tongue over his upper teeth. “Good number, don’t you agree?”
“I’m roasting.” I pull my hoodie off, standing in front of him with nothing but a sports bra and leggings.
Outside, snow is falling down onto mounds of white. It looks like we’re nestled inside a marshmallow bag.
I discard my hoodie, wiping off my sweaty face. “The thermostat must be broken. I feel like I’m inside a marathon runner’s tanga.”
“Yeah, Bails. It’s called withdrawals,” he says sadly.