Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Stuck. Like Jesse said.
That was why Claire and I had taken that girls’ trip to Maine to stay in a haunted bed-and-breakfast, eat lobster rolls on the beach, and journal and make lists until we figured out what came next for us. We’d both been going through our mid-twenties, post-college slump, and were determined to find what we needed to change to get closer to living the lives of our dreams.
And then one of those famous Maine moose we’d been hoping to see on the canoe trip earlier in our vacation had run out in front of us on the highway, totaling Claire’s car and changing those dreams forever.
We’d both been rushed to hospital, but only one of us had come out again.
Claire’s dreams were over, and mine were packed away while I dealt with more pressing matters—like grieving, healing, and figuring out how to make my way in the world as I recovered. There were days when figuring out which subway stations were easiest to navigate with my wheelchair, and later, my cane, would bring me to tears.
My parents always offered to help, to fetch things for me or to pick me up in their van and take me wherever I needed to go, but I wanted to be independent. I wanted my life back, the one I’d had before. Sure it hadn’t been perfect, but at least I’d been able to do my own shopping and put clean sheets on my bed without running into every piece of furniture in my tiny bedroom and wanting to smash things in frustration.
On days when I’d felt particularly smashy, Jesse always seemed to sense it. He’d show up with pizza, turn on old episodes of Saturday Night Live, and sneakily make my bed or run down to the laundry in the basement when I wasn’t paying attention.
He was a lifeline, not just making things easier, but making me laugh too. Making me hope.
I’d needed hope so much.
There were days, right after the accident, when the pain of losing Claire and my sense of normalcy were enough to make me wish . . . bad things.
To wish I’d been the one in the driver’s seat instead of my best friend.
I’d felt so out of control—of my emotions, my life, everything.
I can’t go back to being out of control. I just can’t. Not right now. Not even for Claire.
I must keep moving forward and zero in on normal, no matter what Jesse and his soulful eyes and tender hands have to say about it.
His hands. God . . .
Who knew having someone wipe pie off my face could make me feel things like that? I haven’t sizzled that way in so long.
So, so long.
I stop in the shade of a liquor store awning, my fingers hovering over my lips, suddenly thirsty. I need something cold and clear to wash away the panic and confusion.
And the anger.
How could he do this? Announce he’s moving thousands of miles away in two weeks like it’s not a big deal?
God, he’s such an asshole.
Except that he’s not, but I don’t want to think about tough love or me possibly being a big baby coward or the look in Jesse’s eyes when he promised I didn’t have to tackle the list alone.
I duck into the organic food co-op next to the liquor store, my skin prickling as the air-conditioning blasts over my head when I pass through the door. It’s frigid in here. Clearly the owners haven’t gotten the memo that it’s not blazing hot outside. By the time I reach the drink case beside the juice bar, I’m shivering. Every hair on my forearms is standing on end, and my nipples are poking through the strawberry-stained fabric of my shirt.
So, when I turn around and see none other than Chad, my rehab boyfriend, and a pretty brunette I can only assume is Bethany, the ex he dumped me for, I not only have pie stains on my shirt, but I’m drawing extra attention to breasts that Chad once described, in a disappointed voice, as “not quite a handful.”
What a dick he is.
But what did I expect? Not all guys named Chad are awful, but not-awful Chads are definitely the exception, not the rule.
Bethany, I see, has way more than a handful. Her naturally bouncy and bountiful chest barely fits in a tiny crocheted top that leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s got the curvy thing going for her, no doubt, and she’s probably a nice enough person. But as she and Chad canoodle while they unload their groceries, giggling and touching each other for absolutely no reason except that they’re hot for each other and don’t care who knows it, I can’t help comparing the two of us.
Why am I always the girl left un-chosen?
Sure, my boobs are small, but so what? Boobs aren’t everything. I’m as attractive as Bethany. And I have many other good qualities—I have especially nice lips, if I do say so myself. And I’m fun too. Most importantly, I’m a good person. I care about people—really care. I try to be thoughtful and compassionate to everyone who drifts into my orbit, and I’d do anything for a friend, family member, or significant other. I’m loyal to the bone.