Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I blew out a breath, feeling my whole body flash hot and then cold. What was I doing?
The whole time I’d been developing Project Daisy Chain, I’d focused solely on the project itself. If the EMTs had access to her medical records or communicated with an ER doc during the trauma response, she might have lived, so ambulances needed better ways of communicating with area hospitals to optimize treatment in the field, not to mention delivery to the best hospital for the problem rather than the closest one. The amount I’d known about emergency communications, hospital resources, and even the technology involved in designing a solution to the problem could have fit in one of my mom’s collectible thimbles. So I’d focused single-mindedly on learning what I needed, on creating the solution by improving what was there.
I’d been so focused on the overwhelming goodness of what I’d been trying to achieve I hadn’t let myself think about who I was becoming. I’d decided that the end justified the means, even when it meant lying.
And this was where I’d ended up.
I’d never considered what it felt like when Cinderella crashed back to Earth after her one brilliant night of dancing. Of how much more terrible it felt to put your rags back on when you knew for a fact how amazing the life just out of your reach could be.
For the first time since… well, since I’d dreamed up Project Daisy Chain, I wondered if maybe it was time to pack it all in and head home.
Bobby would happily give me my job back at the Tech Barn, and the guys would only give me shit about my “pie-in-the-sky” idea for a little while. I knew my parents would be happy to forget I’d ever had a business idea, just like they’d be thrilled if I finally started dressing like a normal person and stopped cluttering the garage with cast-off furniture that needed love. After I’d worked for a few weeks, I’d mail Sebastian a check for at least part of the money he’d spent on me, and I’d try, somehow, to apologize for pretending to be someone I wasn’t, even knowing he would have easily moved on by then.
I could have a good life. A stable life. An honest life.
A booooring life, Daisy’s voice in my head insisted, but I ignored it. I was going to tune that voice out entirely from now on. Daisy had been built for adventure, not me.
When my phone buzzed to tell me Joey was out front, I stood up and made my way to the front of the store on shaky knees. I grabbed a dog-eared paperback off the table before I left and plunked it down on the counter in hopes of justifying my protracted stay in the woman’s store.
“That’ll be three-twelve,” she said with an understanding smile. It wasn’t until after I walked out into the bright sunshine that I looked down at my purchase.
You’re Not Enough (and that’s okay).
Great.
I looked up at the sound of the familiar Mariachi jingle that took the place of the horn on the Burrito Mobile. Joey danced in the driver’s seat like the song was a sick beat, and I couldn’t help but breathe out a little laugh. No matter how shitty of a hand he’d been dealt—like having to drive to Philly in a half-broken-down food truck—Joey always found joy in the moment.
I envied him that.
“Hop in,” he called out the window, the hip-hop music on the radio warring with the Mariachi jingle playing outside. “We’re going cruising in this bitch.”
I hauled my dejected ass up onto the torn vinyl passenger seat and yanked my seat belt on. “It’s ten in the morning, Joseph,” I reminded him. “Not the best time for cruising. Besides, don’t you have a supply run to do?”
“Eh.” Joey shrugged as he pulled back out into traffic. “I had to take a little detour. Lea will understand.”
The hotel loomed large halfway down the next block, and to my horror, a sleek, black car was parked out front.
“Shit.” I ducked down in my seat. “Turn left! Turn left! Don’t go past the hotel!”
He side-eyed me. “You want me to turn left in downtown Philly traffic in a 1985 Chevy P30?” Before I could answer, he swore under his breath. “You could kill someone with those puppy eyes. Swear to fuck.”
The sound of tires screeching and horns blaring barely reached my ears as Migos’s “Taco Tuesday” blared from the speakers with its rich deep bass.
We hurtled onto the side street, cutting off prim hybrids and causing a few pedestrians to step a little livelier. The song was replaced by Kap G’s “José Got Dem Tacos,” which made it very clear there was a horrific playlist theme going on here.
“No,” I said, trying to turn off whatever tricked-out contraption he had connecting his phone to the truck’s old speakers.