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)
"Did you like anything?"
"Some shows were okay, but I never got the "prestige" genre. All the shows are the same. A man, engaging in violence as a way of expressing himself."
"So you're a Breaking Bad fan?"
"I'll leave," she says.
"And Christopher Nolan is a genius?"
"Please stop."
"Did you like anything he showed you?"
"Not really. Is that awful?"
"Yeah, he wasn't paying attention to what you wanted," I say.
She laughs. "I mean, am I awful?"
"For liking what you like?"
"It sounds silly that way. But so many women I know do the same thing. They try to get into the bands their boyfriend's like, try to watch their favorite movies, sit there while guys play video games."
"I don't like video games." They remind me of the guy I used to be.
"Really? A twenty-something man who doesn't like video games?"
"I have to rest my hands."
"Keep them fresh for work?"
"And other uses."
She blushes. It's subtle with her tan skin, which only makes it sexier. "I, uh, started to dive into film after we broke up. There are a few movies I love, but I don't know what you like. I don't want to be like Zack. I want something we'll both enjoy."
"I'm up for anything."
"Really?"
Anything she picks, yeah. I'm sure she wants to watch something substantial. And, these days, I try to open my eyes as much as I can. Invite other points of view. "Anything."
"I'm kinda tired. So something easy, okay?"
I nod.
She picks another old movie. The Apartment.
It's good. Interesting.
Perfect really, except for one very awkward moment.
The one that underscores what a fucking mess I am.
Shirley MacLaine's character takes a bottle of sleeping pills. She tries to end her life.
The same way Deidre did.
Chapter Thirteen
PATRICK
Imogen falls asleep on the couch. I cover her in a blanket and let her sleep.
I'm not good conversation at the moment.
The flick's happy ending isn't enough to ease the tension in my shoulders.
There are plenty of reasons to like the movie. The writing is sharp. The acting is great. The point of view is surprisingly modern.
And the scene where the lead tries to end things is understated. Easy to miss. Especially for people who only watch comic book movies.
The person I was, before Deidre.
There's this giant line in my life.
The guy who kicked back with his friends, drinking beer, shooting the shit, ignoring the heavy stuff.
Then the guy who couldn't ignore it anymore—
Who lost his ability to ignore it.
Sort of.
I see it now, but I don't engage. I don't ask Dare if his I'm hot and dumb routine is masking an inability to get real. I don't congratulate Oliver on his sobriety. I don't ask Holden how hard it is doing things long distance.
Maybe it's routine. Maybe it's a lack of guts. I don't know, but I know I want more.
I want to bring Imogen to the bed, wrap my arms around her, ask why she loves the movie.
If it means anything to her. If she's had those thoughts, known anyone who did.
That isn't what she wants. I respect that. I do.
And it's not like I know how to be the person she needs, the person anyone needs.
There's a reason why Deidre didn't share this with me. And not just because I'm her kid brother.
I saw it, but I refused to see it too.
She was pulling away, avoiding family dinners, claiming other responsibilities. She said she was exhausted because she was working too hard.
It all sounded reasonable.
But it was bullshit.
In hindsight, it's obvious. At the time, I dismissed everything. I refused to look closer. I turned away from the truth.
After Deidre died, and my parents jumped into "fix it, don't talk about it mode," cleaned up her social media accounts (it was a "tragic accident" not an intentional act of self-destruction), sold her car, closed her accounts.
They didn't talk about it. They don't talk about it.
And now I barely see Molly, my oldest sister, because I can't deal with either option; her denying it or her discussing it.
There's really only one place I find intimacy—Hearts and Thorns.
That's how I found her. Deidre followed a bunch of online journals. Hers was the only one that stuck.
For a year now, I've been poring over my sister's passions. The books she dog-eared, the graphic novels she adored, the websites she followed.
Everything offers some insight.
But hers offers the most.
She isn't anything like Deidre, but she still helps me understand. And the ability to drink every drop of her words, to watch her recover, lift herself out of the darkness—
It's addicting.
She's an open book and I want to read every page.
She doesn't know me, but she still trusts me with her darkest secrets. And that's intoxicating.
Even though she trusts anyone who stumbles on her site.
It feels different, like I know her, like I understand her.
Maybe I'm delusional, but I need her tonight. I need to swim in an ocean of understanding.