Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Sloane drops down on the chair opposite me at our favorite coffee shop in the heart of San Francisco, right near The Market. I can’t wait to finally be out of San Francisco. To escape this endless cycle of my personal nightmare.
“Are we going out this weekend?” Sloane asks, hiding her face behind a curtain of newly dyed red hair. “You know, one last hurrah in The Bay area before we have plenty more hurrahs at college together this time.”
Her logic doesn’t make sense since we already spend a lot of time partying anytime she is home. For the past four years, I’ve been making up for lost time. Getting stuck in whatever I can by doing whatever I want. Sloane remained the most popular girl in Stone View, even when she’s away at UCLA. I did okay too, but we all know it’s because of—him.
“Yes,” I answer quickly. “I need a distraction this weekend.” It’s Friday night, but that’s not the reason why I need a distraction. It’s the date that this Friday is.
Her hand comes to mine, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling around the edges. Sloane isn’t the same girl she used to be. She’s older, rounder, sexier. She’s not some naïve little puppy that wants to hang around all of the hot people at school. Now she scares them off by baring her teeth. “I’m sorry. How long has it been now?” The waiter comes to our table.
“Four years,” I murmur before distracting myself with coffee. “Can I get a caramel latte, please.”
Sloane orders hers before looking back at me. “Shall we change the subject?”
I nod. “Yes. About this weekend…” I never like talking about him. In fact, I’ve gone four long fucking years without so much as whispering his name.
I’m angry. Hurt. But mostly, angry.
Sloane starts yapping off about what she wants us to do and how we should go about it. I’m not surprised to hear that Matty is home and throwing a party at his parents beach house. Not much has changed where Matty is concerned. Still with the same girl, attending UCLA with Sloane, and still the biggest party-thrower in Stone View. We continue through our plans as I sip on two lattes, a bowl of chili fries, and a chocolate cake. When it’s time for both of us to head home, I kiss her goodbye and make my way out to my car.
Distraction is the key that cracks open a broken soul. I turn up the music in my BMW all the way home. Home. The large white pillars hold the old-school plantation style mansion up delicately, so uncommon to the standard architecture of San Fran. The manicured grass springs to life and the scatter of vibrant flowers give the otherwise plain style multi-million-dollar property a version of life. Everything is exactly the same, without it being exactly the same. I look at this house with new eyes since he left.
Sighing, I reach for my handbag and crawl out of my car. I can’t wait to not be here.
“Jade? Is that you?” Mom asks as I slam the front door closed. I was hoping to slip in discretely, but I’m shit out of luck. Like usual.
I drop my bags near the front door, removing my scarf. Mom has changed a little over the past four years, becoming more maternal. I think she regrets a lot of what happened with him, and now she’s trying to make up for it with me. It’s exhausting.
When I amble into the kitchen, I catch her with a wooden spoon clutched in her delicate hand, stirring through cake batter in a couple of large bowls. Her blonde hair is cut razor-sharp now, hanging casually around her jawline. “Will you be home for dinner tonight?”
“Um.” My eyes fall to my toes. Bright blue nails. I like blue, it reminds me of the ocean. Of tranquility and the sound of angry waves crashing against the acquiescent damp sand. I’ve always loved the defiance of the ocean. It’s moody, beautiful, and could kill you if you’re not smart enough to handle its currents. “I guess.”
I know that I’m lucky to have had been welcomed into a family that actually fed me. Bathed me. And paid for anything and everything that I could want. They had money. They offered me a warm home and food in my hungry belly. I counted myself lucky. I was well aware of how some foster children had it. But should we really compare our lives to the unfortunate occurrences of others. I think not.
“Great!” Mom interrupts my coiled thoughts. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. Something’s not right. The sadness that has always clouded her is no longer there. Her movements aren’t sluggish, there’s a bounce in her step. It’s almost as though— “Royce is home.”