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)
"Sure, Immy. That's why you're spending the entire summer at UCLA. 'Cause you don't want to avoid being here."
"Maybe I'm devoted to my studies. Like Mom said."
"Yeah, you're a nerd, for sure," she says. "But we both know it's more than that."
It is. But I can't tell her. Mom and I agree here, terrifyingly enough.
"You're weird with Mom now."
"We always fight."
"No, it's different. Cold."
"It's nothing you need to worry about," I say.
"Very reassuring."
"I promise."
"If it's no big deal, tell me," she says.
"I love you." I finish the last dish and give her a hug. "But I have a hot date tonight."
"Really?" Her dark eyes light up. She looks a lot like me, only more compact. A little shorter, a little curvier, a little more muscular. "You're seeing someone?"
"It's more of a fling," I say.
She squeals. "Is he cute? Do you have a picture?"
"I don't want to announce it."
"They know you date."
"They know, maybe, but they like to pretend otherwise," I say.
"I took a guy to prom."
"That's different. You're the golden child."
"Please. They love how much you love school."
They do. Julie shines in social situations, but she's not as book smart. She has her own problems. Which is why I need to take control of mine.
And I don't even have a problem. I'm good. I'm great.
I'm better than great. I'm horny.
I check the coast is clear—Mom and Dad are talking business on the porch—and I show my sister Patrick's Instagram.
She scrolls until she finds a picture of him. "He's adorable. Tall?"
"Tall enough," I say. "Not that you'd ever be able to tell." I take my cell and hold it over her head.
"Hey! I can jump." She does, in fact, jump.
I lift the phone higher.
She laughs as she leaps for it.
"You're going to break something."
"So show me more of him," she says.
I hand her the phone.
She takes it to the table and studies the images. "Oh my god. This is you." She finds a recent shot of his work. The tattoo Patrick put on my ribs. "You talked about this design for three weeks straight."
I did.
"You didn't tell me! Can I see! Please. I won't tell."
"Okay, but fast."
She nods of course and watches with wide eyes as I peel my shirt and my bra up my stomach.
It's extremely weird, but it's sweet too.
"Wow." She just stops herself from tracing the lines. "That's beautiful. Can I get one too?"
"You're not eighteen."
"But he's your boyfriend, right? He'll break rules."
"He won't be my boyfriend when Mom and Dad kill me."
"They won't find out," she says.
"They always find out."
She nods maybe.
"And he's not my boyfriend. We're just… having fun."
"That's so grown-up." She lets out a sigh that's pure teenage girl longing. "I can't wait until I'm in college."
"Wait. Stay young forever."
"Don't even! When you were my age… I remember how often you snuck around with guys."
"It wasn't that often."
"It was often enough."
Maybe. I did have a phase. I didn't have sex, but I did have a lot of make out sessions, ranging from OMG to oh, hell no. "Are you seeing the guy you took to prom?"
"Not really."
"You trust him?"
"Yeah, sure. He's sweet," she says. "But don't worry, we're not having sex."
I wasn't worried. Until she said that. "You have condoms?"
"Immy!"
"Seriously, Julie. It's better to be safe than sorry."
"Yes. I have condoms." She flames red. "We're not going to have sex. I'm not ready."
My shoulders fall. I want my kid sister to have a fulfilling life, with everything that entails, but I still worry. Men aren't always the most trustworthy. Women aren't always the most trustworthy. She's tough, yes, but she's sweet too. She sees the best in people. "He knows that?"
"Oh my god, you're about to go have casual sex."
"I'm ready."
"Ugh. You're the worst."
"That's my job, as your older sister."
"Will you tell me about it?"
"Sure." I give her a hug. "I love you."
"Go. Get laid."
"When did you become a bro?"
"Hello! Softball scholarship!"
That's true. "Be good."
"I should tell you that."
Probably.
I give her another hug, then I say goodbye to my parents, I get into my car, and I leave.
After a few blocks, I stop. I change into a dress. I apply lipstick. I check the time.
A few minutes to eight. The drive is an hour. I'll arrive right on time.
Perfect.
I text Patrick.
Imogen: See you soon.
I add a photo of my legs stretched over the passenger seat. It's not the most graceful image, sure, but there's something about snapping a shot for him.
It's really fucking hot.
Chapter Nine
IMOGEN
Patrick lives just off the happening Abbot-Kinney street, in a new apartment building. He's right on the edge of the bungalow section of Venice Beach (streets and streets of "beach shacks" worth seven figures).
How does he afford his place? He doesn't seem like the kind of guy who comes from money. But then I don't seem like someone who lives on the beach in Newport.