Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” His eyes linger on my clothes. “Manhattan?”
“You’ve been?” I ask before he can question who I work for.
“Yeah, plenty. For family things.”
Family things? That’s too vague, but I don’t press because A) not here to make a fake fucking friend, and B) don’t need him pressing my backstory that I’m creating on the fly.
“I have a cousin who lives in Brooklyn, too,” Jake adds. “He’s kind of an asshole.”
“Most of us are.” I force a smile.
Jake forces one back, and it’s as though we both know we’re full of shit right now. That we don’t really appreciate or like one another. If he were a mark, it’d be an uphill climb to gain his trust. But I don’t need him to like me or even really to trust me.
I just need him not to fuck with Hailey or Phoebe.
“You’re not going to tell me your real name, are you?” Jake realizes.
“Not unless you end up in bed with me. And sorry, man, you’re not really my type. Too tall.”
He lets out a short laugh that sounds more like an irritated sigh. “Okay, fair enough. As long as you’re not living here—because if you are, I need your ID.”
“Fair enough.” I use his words.
He’s not easing, but he drops the issue. “Apartment is directly above the bookshop.” He points to the staircase. “Always lock the stairwell door on your way in and out. Homeless people will try to crash in here when it gets colder.” He puts a foot on the first stair, about to lead us to the other locked door. “One more thing.”
“Yeah?” Hailey frowns, wanting badly to just get inside the loft.
Jake swings around, but he’s not looking at her. His attention is back on me. “If Hailey is your sister, what’s Phoebe to you?”
Everything.
Nothing.
None of your fucking business.
I open my mouth to decree us as just friends.
“We’re divorced,” Phoebe suddenly announces.
What?
A record scratches in my brain, but I force my expression to remain blank. Not letting Mr. Uptight see anything on my face.
“Newly. It was mutual,” Phoebe adds like word vomit, her face flushing.
The lies keep coming, and I add nothing.
Phoebe is glaring at me to say something, but now I’m trying not to laugh.
“I hate him,” she concludes. “With a passion.”
“Oh-kaaay,” Hailey draws out with wide eyes and tries to extinguish this burning ship. “This way?” She moves ahead of Jake and guides him up the stairs away from us.
Like always, we linger behind.
“Divorced?” I whisper to Phoebe. “What happened to wanting to live honestly?”
“I honestly feel like you’re my ex-husband.”
“I’m honestly not your ex-anything,” I tell Phoebe under my breath, carefully watching Jake ascend the stairs with my sister. He’s not looking back at us. Not as I add, “I’ve always been dishonestly yours. And it looks like that’s not changing.”
“I guess not.” She takes a preparing breath.
I can’t tell if she’s pissed there is one glaring lie in the start of her truthful life, but maybe she realizes being fully honest is impossible anyway.
We can’t tell anyone about our pasts without incriminating ourselves and our families.
I can’t hate what I do. It’s who I am. And I am and I’ve been many fucking things in this world, but self-loathing is not even in the same universe as me.
Five
Phoebe
Things are off to a spectacular start. Should I pop the champagne to my newly divorced self? Bring out the charcuterie?
Clearly, I need to toast to my stupid quick thinking. I had an opportunity to be truthful, and I didn’t take it. Maybe Rocky is right, I can’t do this.
No, the stubborn part of me is screeching.
I’m not throwing in the towel yet, not when we scope out the loft and Hailey keeps casting anxious glances and smiles at me. She wants to be here, and I’m not screwing this up for her more than I almost already did.
Flashing my landlord that I just met? Why? Why was that my gut instinct?
I hated myself in that smallest, most jagged second, and that hate swelled up like an unpoppable balloon inside of me. If Rocky hadn’t been there . . .
I would’ve gone through with it. I would’ve showed Jake my pierced nipples like I was at Burning Man or a strip club.
We were in public. It wasn’t smart. It had D-U-M-B written all over it. Just so, so dumb.
And I should feel grateful that Rocky stopped me, but I just feel like I should’ve had the power to do that myself. I should be more in control of my actions and my body, and I shouldn’t need to rely on another person to stop me from making a bad decision.
Instead of dunk-tanking in a vat of humiliation, I remind myself that Jake just thinks I’m a free-spirited hippie who prefers being in the nude. Thanks, Hails. It helps shake off what happened.