Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“I am loving it,” she conceded. “But it’s been, like, five seconds.”
“You’re super into this girl, you’re hanging with Ramona, and you’ve sent approximately seven hundred pictures of flowers to Ash.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him at Muskee’s the other day. Omigod, speaking of: he’s so into Truman. Have you talked to him about it?”
A pang of guilt twisted Greta’s stomach. She hadn’t talked to Ash at all. They’d never really had a phone relationship—she usually just stopped into Thorn—but she should definitely text him.
“No, I owe him a text that isn’t all flowers.”
“Well it’s de-light-ful. He’s all moony. Anyway, are you? You totally should. We could announce it to the family together. They couldn’t kill us both. It would be too suspicious.”
Greta imagined staying. She imagined walking outside without a winter coat. Having a garden where the plants of her heart thrived year-round. Learning a new culture, a new region. She imagined waking up wrapped around Carys, making her coffee with lots of cream and sugar, bringing it to her in bed. She imagined kissing Carys’ lips and brushing back her curls to nuzzle her neck.
She sighed with pleasure, but it was too soon. She could just imagine Carys’ expression if she said, Hey, I like you. How about I move here?
“I just mean…what if you did?”
Reasons why it would never work automatically scrolled through Greta’s mind like a ticker tape.
“Well, I don’t have a job—”
“You can get one.”
“Don’t have a place to live—”
“You can find one.”
“I don’t know how I’d be able to get all my plants here—”
“It’s called a moving company, and I refuse to believe you don’t understand that.”
“Haha. I don’t know.”
“Dude, these are not problems. They’re, like, normal parts of moving that anyone over the age of twelve knows. What’s the actual issue?”
“What if I move here and I’m just as miserable as I always was at home?”
The words came out of her mouth before she even registered their truth in her mind.
“Whoa.”
“Sorry, I just mean—”
“No way. Do not apologize. I just never knew you were straight up miserable.”
“I mean, I’m not really. I…”
But as she looked at the night blooming around her, she could acknowledge that she really, really was.
There weren’t opportunities for her on Owl Island. Summers were nice in Maine, but she hated the cold weather, hated the feeling that as of November, the whole world shut down until May. She felt trapped, an ineffectual Persephone, doomed to the underworld to wait out half her life until spring came.
She hated how homogenous the island was, how she’d only learned about lives that were different from hers secondhand, through books or movies or social media.
“I guess, yeah, I don’t love it. I adore Ash, of course, and Addie, and all of you. But there’s just…”
“Nothing there for you.”
“Does that sound so awful?”
“Dude, no! Why should you have to stay someplace just cuz it’s where you happened to be born? It’s silly. You should be somewhere that nourishes your damn soul.”
“When’d you get so wise?” Greta teased.
“Oh, I’ve always been like this,” Maggie said breezily. “You all just never noticed ’cause I’m the baby.”
“Clearly, you’ve benefited from the experiences of your sisters before you.”
“Yeah, probably, but mostly I think it’s just because you all already had each other so I kinda hung out on my own.”
“What? No way. We always let you hang out with us.”
“Yeah, let being the operative word. You let me tag along. But tagging along was boring, so I did my own thing. No one noticed since I wasn’t like Adelaide tattling to Mom and Dad when she got left out.”
Greta laughed. Addie had been an inveterate tattletale from about seven to twelve.
“I’ll have to share that perspective with Ramona. Her theory was that since you’re the youngest, you’ve just had the least amount of time to be poisoned by our family culture.”
“Ha, Ramona. She’s such a weird bitch, I love her.”
“I will let her know.”
“Wanna know another secret?” Maggie asked.
“Of course.”
There was an uncharacteristic pause, and when Maggie spoke she sounded almost shy. “You’re my favorite sister.”
The favorite game was one that all five Russakoff sisters had played often over the years. Someone did you a favor, you told her she was your favorite. Someone borrowed your shirt and ripped it, you told her she was your least favorite. It meant everything and nothing.
But this wasn’t part of the game. Maggie sounded sincere.
“I’m serious. I know you and Addie are twins so you, like, have to be each other’s favorites or whatever, but I just wanted you to know.”
Tears pricked Greta’s eyes. Her brave, sweet, wild little sister thought of Greta as her favorite.
“Thank you,” she said. “For real. And honestly, yeah, Addie is my twin and I know her better than anyone, but that doesn’t mean she has to be my favorite.”