Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
My jaw tensed. “You put way too much fucking pressure on yourself.” All of the girls I was surrounded by did, and it had a lot, in part, to do with the media placing impossible ideals on them.
Before they even hit puberty, they were supposed to be role models, advocates, successful, beautiful, fierce, strong, humble, and sweet—when all I ever wanted for each of them was to be happy.
“Let me preface,” Jane said, “my epiphany has nothing to do with math.”
“Good.”
Jane loved math as a child. Even joined mathletes as a teenager, and people fantasized about Janie having a career in the field. But she never meant for it to be a lifelong passion. Still, people on Twitter, Tumblr, all social medias—they created an entire life for Jane off a favorite childhood school subject.
It was a lot of pressure for a kid.
Fear of disappointing your parents—that’s one tough thing. Fear of disappointing fans, the world—that’s a massive, indestructible wall that many people I love keep running into.
I’ve even met that wall before.
Jane took the largest breath. The crux was coming. “I realized tonight,” she said, “that I’ve spent nearly all four years of my ‘college experience’ ambitionless. Lackluster. I need drive.” She clenched her fist like she channeled Joan of Arc into her soul. “A challenge.” Her eyes lit with fire. “My parents live by ambition, and my tank is dry. Empty. Caput.”
“You’re not ambitionless. You’re in Princeton.” In anyone else’s world, that would be considered a success. For the Cobalt family, attending an Ivy League was just expected.
“Online courses,” she corrected. “And I only have three semesters left. I’m setting a goal. A challenge. I have to find a career path by the time I graduate. No floundering like a dead fish. I’m born from lions.”
There it was.
The biggest truth.
Her parents had their shit figured out in the womb. Her mom created her own fashion company at fifteen. Her dad ran a multi-billion-dollar paint, magnet, and diamond business called Cobalt Inc. by twenty-four.
In Jane’s mind, she wasn’t even the tortoise lagging behind. She hadn’t put herself in the fucking race yet.
Ambition. She wanted it.
I vowed to help her, and we’ve been doing random activities together ever since. Just to ignite a modicum of inspiration. Flight lessons, roller derby, and most recently, cake decorating.
Bells ding as Farrow holds a door open to a polished city bakery. I was a centimeter away from grabbing the knob first.
“I’m just faster than you,” Farrow says, near-laughter as my scowl deepens.
On land maybe. “And so much more humble too.” I know he only lets me enter the bakery before him because it’s empty. Bought-out for a couple hours by Jane.
A few weeks ago, her bodyguard retired too, and Akara assigned a new face to Jane. Twenty-year-old Quinn Oliveira is the youngest bodyguard in the team, and he’s earning his stripes by starting on Jane’s detail.
I don’t know him that well. Just that he’s a former pro-boxer, Brazilian-American, and his older brother is another bodyguard on SFO. Quinn’s inexperience doesn’t bother me. Everyone has to start somewhere, but I do find it strange that they’re letting Farrow train him. Christ, Farrow practically threw out my rules on day one. He’s not the ideal bodyguard role model.
Quinn looms by the bakery’s sprinkle rack. Right near the store window for optimum entrance security.
And where there’s a Quinn, there has to be a Jane.
I leave Farrow at the bakery-front. Attempting my best to glance back only one time. Not half a million. Farrow rests his knee on a stubby wooden stool and quietly talks to Quinn. My bodyguard motions towards the entrances and exits, probably giving him tips or something.
I walk deeper into the bakery. And my smile forms the instant I spot my best friend.
Hands perched on her wide hips, Jane surveys the artistic chalkboard menu as though this one decision will determine her whole future.
Pale blue cat-eye sunglasses perch on long, frizzy brunette hair. Jane’s as unique as her style: mint-green pants, frilly Victorian sleeves beneath a Zebra-print sweater, mismatched sequined heels, and a watermelon-shaped purse—no one can duplicate or clone this girl.
She’s patented one-of-a-kind, and I’m not letting go of her. Not anytime or day or year. I love her too damn much.
Approaching fast, I steal her gaze and watch her own smile take shape.
In seamless French, I say, “Bonsoir, ma moitié.” Good evening, my other half. I kiss both of her freckled cheeks.
Her long lashes shade poised, blistering blue eyes. “It’s just you and me, old chap.”
Nearly at the same time, her arms wrap around my waist and mine slide around her shoulders. I draw her into a warm hug.
My muscles start to loosen like I’m home.
You know Jane Eleanor Cobalt as the oldest Cobalt child out of seven. The twenty-two-year-old pastel-loving, cat-hoarding girl who invites you into her life like a friend. You’ve seen Instagram videos of her burning French toast, trying on a new pair of pants, and reading passages of old literature.