Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 182641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 913(@200wpm)___ 731(@250wpm)___ 609(@300wpm)
Boston gets yet another free pass she doesn’t deserve and will not be forced to sit and fake laugh and chat, drink bourbon or champagne, depending on what my father chooses to order for his nineteen-year-old daughter on this little dinner date to “celebrate” our mother’s death. Not that he’ll mention her name a single time during … or permit me to do so either.
No, we don’t speak of Mother. We “enjoy” our meal, grateful for the family we do have because family is everything. It’s the be-all and end-all—blood before all.
We might work with and worship the Greyson union, but we live and breathe for our name.
I am sworn to be a Greyson first, to think and act with consideration of the girls I stand beside, but according to my father, I am a Revenaw above all else.
What sense does that even make?
My mind and body are ticking time bombs, begging for some sort of release while also warning me against it. The sensation leaves my limbs heavy, and it takes real effort to force myself to the dining hall for dinner.
There is a seat for all who live in the house at the dining room table, and shockingly enough, most days, we’re all here together, if only long enough to finish our meals, but this evening the Greco brothers, Delta, Alto, and Ander are feeling chatty. Bronx chimes in and Damiano laughs with them, Boston having excused herself early on—probably to throw her food up before it has time to settle too long—but I don’t feel like talking, numbly pushing the braised cherry duck that I’m sure is divine, but tastes like nothing on my tongue, around on my plate.
Suddenly, I want barbeque. Chicken with a bone in it I can eat with my hands.
I want Bastian, but not the way I should.
I want to sit with him and do nothing, talk about things that don’t matter, invite him for dinner and laugh when he tries something for the first time and hates it. I want to wear his headphones and listen to what he likes while he pushes my hair over my shoulder, feel his rough hands holding me still if only so my heart will stop pounding against my ribs.
Goddamn it, it is pounding.
I excuse myself, ignoring the glances I get from around the table, and make my way down to the pool. I change into a suit and ease into the temperature-controlled water, slowly swimming from one end to the other. I do this until my body takes control and my heart rate demands I concede.
Dragging myself up two steps, I sit, stretching my torso back and placing my head on the brick, wishing the dizziness away. When this first started happening a little over a year ago, I thought it was a panic attack, which is the last thing someone like me needed. I could hear my father’s voice in my head the moment I was sure I had figured out what was wrong.
If you cannot be composed, you cannot be what is needed. You must be in control at all times, aware of your surroundings, and able to lead a conversation or situation the way that you wish it to go.
What use would I be if every time things grew tricky, I turned into a shaky, fuzzy-headed mess?
I thought that was the worst I could get, but I was wrong.
Asthma. Late asthma onset caused by overexposure to chemicals.
From diving.
I had always been told my dedication to the water showed strength and resilience. It turns out that what my father claims is wrong. There is such a thing as overexertion. As too much practice, training too hard, but he was also right—love does kill, and mine for the water nearly claimed my lungs as payment.
It’s not a huge issue outside the water. Muggy air, such as a sauna, can sometimes tighten my rib cage, but other than that, the punishment only comes when I step inside this space.
No one knows, not even the girls. I have an emergency inhaler hidden in several places, but I’ve yet to use them. People assume I reached the top and therefore had no need to continue, but a musician doesn’t stop making music simply because she earns a Grammy, and an artist doesn’t stop creating a national metal. The same goes for a diver, but I don’t dwell on the loss. It would do me no good.
I don’t bother changing from my suit but wrap a robe around me and head for my room.
The girls and I have a job to set up, this time to send a warning to someone who rubbed Bronx’s dad the wrong way, and we’re told it’s for us to handle, not something to use as training for any Greyson or Greyson prospects. So it will be a long night of planning after Delta’s rehearsal and Bronx’s studio session. Thank God for that. I need the distraction.