Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Maybe it’s my agent.
Maybe it’s Richards.
Maybe it’s Ryner.
Don’t know, don’t care.
Aurora. Aurora. Aurora. What am I going to do with you, Aurora?
Not fuck you. Not right now. You’re not ready for it yet, and besides, there’s the whole boyfriend thing to tackle. He’s leaving in a day. I know, because I’ve read the email Ryner’s barely literate assistant sent me, though, of course, I didn’t answer it.
Perhaps I should start by educating you as to how badly you’ve ruined things for me?
No. Too early for that.
Explain how I tried to protect you all those years ago by keeping the truth from you and what you did in return is kill my soul, then feed it to the wolves? Hmm. There’s still time for that, too.
The house looks like a kip. It’s not always like this, but I wanted her to feel bad. I’m trying to dig into her soul with a spoon and see if she still has a conscience.
I close my eyes, letting another phone call go to voicemail.
“Love?”
I hear the English version of American Psycho calling to Aurora behind the door.
“Mal went to lie down. Would you like me to call a cab so we could go buy some toiletries? I haven’t seen any here.”
First of all, Mal? I’m not one of his masturbating-in-a-circle Eton mates. Malachy for you, thankyouverymuch.
Second, was he expecting The Ritz? I don’t owe him anything.
Third…there isn’t a third, but I’m positive I’ll find something else to get pissy about by the end of his visit.
See, Kiki? You always said I should be more positive.
A few minutes later, I hear a soft knock on the door. I don’t want to recognize the sound of her knuckles hitting wood, unless that wood is attached to my crotch. Still, I know it’s her.
“Mal?” she asks.
“Leave.”
“We’re heading out.”
I don’t say anything, because that’s exactly what I said she should do. Go away.
“Can we grab you something? Food? Milk? Bleach? Manners?”
I smirk to the ceiling, my hands tucked behind my head. It’s on. She’s here, and she is angry, and she is funny, and she is all mine. Sweet and thoughtful and feisty—the perfect combination. Shiny Boyfriend can do nothing about it but sit back and watch.
“No,” I growl.
“When are you planning to start working?”
“When the muse strikes me.”
“Can you be more specific? I need to know when to unpack my equipment.”
“I need to feel inspired to write,” I say in a patronizing tone I just adopted out of nowhere. “Anyone can click a camera. I actually produce, with words and everything. It takes a bit more than having a finger.”
Low blow, but that’s where she aimed when she made potpourri out of my heart and skipped back to America, throwing it everywhere in her wake. There’s a beat of silence on the other side of the door.
“I can email Whitney, Ryner’s assistant, to send someone over to clean the house before Richards—”
“Who died and made you Joanna Gaines? Why don’t you mind your own business instead of criticizing other people’s houses?”
A part of me prays her shiny boyfriend will take offense to the way I speak to his mot, storm in, and punch me. I’m in the mood for a good fight. Alas, Mr. Banker is not planning on ruining his manicure anytime soon, based on the depressing silence coming from outside the door.
“How do you know who Joanna Gaines is?” she asks after a moment of silence, a smile in her voice.
Kathleen’s Ma, Elaine, watches her and her husband’s show all the time. Sometimes she cries. I’d cry, too, if I had to spend an hour watching people choosing wallpaper for a house that’s not even theirs.
“Yeah. Okay. Gotcha.” Aurora bangs her palm against the door.
Two minutes later, I hear the front door slam. I close my eyes. My phone starts ringing again. I crack one eyelid open, just to make sure it’s not Kathleen’s number. When I see it’s a US phone number, I turn the phone to silent and take a nap.
By the time I wake up, the crickets are singing. I take my time adjusting to the darkness and stretch—I have nothing waiting for me—then sit up on the edge of my bed, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes.
A sudden thud comes from the living room. Then the front door whines open. I flip my phone over and check the time. Midnight. They weren’t solely shopping for tampons and shampoo, that’s for sure.
Aurora giggles, her shiny boyfriend grunts, and then they both whisper.
Someone bumps into a piece of furniture. Aurora laughs breathlessly. I hate her laugh. It’s throaty and low and fuck, which part of me thought this was a good idea, the masochist or the drunk?
Getting revenge by having her come here and spend time with me is like getting laid by wrapping your crotch in sandpaper and joining a monastery.