Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I take it. "How is it different?"
"We had a happy ending. So I can barely imagine how you feel. Because I asked myself all the same questions. What did I miss? How did I influence her? Was it my fault?"
Daisy, her best friend, wasn't depressed or suicidal. Not exactly. She had an eating disorder. One she denied for a long time.
I only know the rough sketch. She is Oliver's sister, after all, and I've known him a long time. She's younger. And when she was at her worst, she was young. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. I was younger too, but still too old to gawk at a fifteen-year-old girl.
If I caught myself checking her out, I averted my eyes.
But I still noticed the changes in her. She was always uptight and shy—the type of girl who would rather read than go to a party—but she sank into herself. Started dressing in baggy black clothes, avoiding our bullshit as often as possible.
I barely knew her. She was just my friend's kid sister and I noticed. Luna was, is, her best friend.
"Your chocolate is melting." Luna motions to the brown goo spreading over my fingers. "It melts at body temperature."
I pop the piece in my mouth, suck the remnants from my fingers. It could be sexual, but with her here, it's just not. "Thinking."
"I figured."
"I don't blame you for looking," she says. "But I wouldn't blame Imogen for feeling betrayed either."
Yeah.
"And the longer you go without telling her, the worse it will be."
"I stopped reading."
"For how long?"
Am I that obvious?
"How would you feel?" Luna asks. "If it was your diary?"
"I don't keep a diary."
"Private sketches then."
There are sketches I don't share, but they're strange and abstract. No one can find the secrets in them. "I'd understand the curiosity."
"What if there was something that really was yours?"
"Like what?"
"A drawing of someone tied to your bed."
"Where do you get this?"
"Inked Hearts." Our parent shop. The guys who run Inked Hearts expanded by opening Inked Love. That's all way above my paygrade, but we see them often enough. "Rumors about one of the couples there."
"No way."
"Way. You know the tall brooding guy with the cute blonde?"
"The one brooding tattoo artist?"
She laughs. "Brendon. And the girl… she wears blue glasses."
That's vaguely familiar.
"That's where I hear, anyway. That Kaylee peeked in his sketchbook and found all these dirty drawings of her."
"Are you making this up?" I ask.
"Does it matter? It's an illustration of my point."
"They've been together a long time." I think. "If it is true, the evidence speaks for itself."
"But how would you feel?" she asks. "If that was the situation?"
"Relieved. To not have to keep a secret anymore."
"Maybe that's an answer," she says. "Maybe you need to let go of this secret and tell her."
That's a good argument.
It makes sense.
A lot of sense.
"You have to tell her eventually," she says. "And the longer you wait, the worse it will be."
"I know," I say.
"So… what are you going to do?"
Chapter Thirty-Six
PATRICK
Luna doesn't force me to answer, but we both know the truth.
I can only stop reading Imogen's site for so long. I need her words, her honesty, her intimacy.
And I need to do right by her.
Which only leaves one option, the option that might ruin everything.
After I say goodbye, I walk home and avoid Imogen's entry all night.
I toss and turn, but I make it through the night without giving in to temptation.
All day, my fingers itch to open my phone, read the site, let her words pour over me.
All day, I resist.
I focus on the one thing that makes sense, the one way I absolutely know how to do right by her.
Sex.
Patrick: I want another round on the balcony.
Imogen: The same balcony?
Patrick: No. Different place, same idea. If you're game.
Imogen: Ready when you are.
Patrick: Thursday. I'll pick you up. Take you out.
Imogen: Take me where?
Patrick: It's a surprise.
Imogen: What's the dress code?
Patrick: Anything.
Imogen: Really? Sweats.
Patrick: Casual to dressy. Outside. Bring a sweater. And a swimsuit.
Imogen: I'm intrigued.
Patrick: Perfect.
The great thing about my job, a lot of people want to convince me they're cool. With a few texts, I score invites to three different parties. A club in WeHo. A celebrity's place in the Hills. A music mogul's Malibu mansion. He's recently divorced and courting a reputation as an open-minded single dude.
Perfect.
Terrifying.
Exactly what Imogen wants.
She trusts me here. And I can give her what she needs here. Everything she needs.
All week, my nerves spin. I'm a confident guy, most of the time, but this is way past my comfort zone.
Thursday, I barely manage to finish lunch. I skip coffee. I do everything it takes to keep my head on straight.
Then I get to Imogen's place and I see the anticipation all over her face, and my nerves fall away.
I lead her to the car and help her into her seat.