Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Don’t get a car,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
As soon as we step outside, a bright light blinds me. It’s the flash from a camera. The paparazzo is a stout figure dressed in all black. “Is this your new girl, Alistair? What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I give him serious stink eye. Random endearments from strange men will never not be gross.
My companion ignores him completely and keeps his body between me and the photographer at all times. With a hand to my lower back, he ushers me along the sidewalk to where his car is parked. Guess he decided the parking lot was too dangerous. He opens the passenger-side door and I climb inside. Whatever sort of car it is, it’s compact. It has leather seats and an immaculate interior. Lord knows what it’s worth.
The paparazzo keeps taking shots, both visual and verbal. “Heard from your father lately? How about the Prince of Wales’s engagement? Do you think you’ll get an invitation to the wedding?”
The demanding voice is only drowned out when Alistair shuts the driver’s-side door and starts the engine. He only had the one glass of champagne, so he is fine to drive. And he wastes no time in leaving.
“Sorry about that,” he mutters.
“Not your fault.”
“Where do you live?”
I give him the address, then sit and stare straight ahead and do not think. A nice calm, empty mind, that’s what we want. In the small confines of the car, however, I’m suddenly overly aware of the male sitting beside me. Better I fixate on him than my apparent dire fate. Being famous doesn’t seem half as much fun as I thought. It’s a good thing I set aside my childhood dreams of becoming a pop star. Not being able to sing worth a damn helped cement the decision. But being stalked and harassed the way Alistair is must suck. He doesn’t say a word during the drive either. Not until we arrive outside my apartment building. Home sweet home.
“Thank you,” I say, opening the door and climbing out. Which is especially hard to do from a low sports car when you’re clutching a bottle of champagne. But what does dignity matter in the face of imminent death?
“You’re not going to die,” he says.
“We all have to someday.”
He gives me one of those long looks he seems to specialize in. No idea what he’s thinking. The man is a mystery. His blue eyes are subdued in the low lighting, and the sharp angles and planes of his face are cast in shadow. “Take care of yourself, Lilah.”
I nod and close the car door, and that’s that.
5
Sunday
There seem to be several schools of thought regarding how best to deal with death. You have your standard five-step process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Then there’s the more popular boho hippie method: meditation, preparation, forgiveness, and gratitude. I myself have chosen a combination of the two.
Hanging out in the shower with my bottle of champagne until the water went cold covered denial, anger, and depression. I was, however, too tired to meditate last night and too hungover to manage it this morning. Talk about a headache. Though spending over an hour on the phone dealing with the details of the car accident and my insurers could be seen as preparation. Same goes for downloading a do-it-yourself will. I don’t want to die intestate and leave a disaster for someone else to deal with. That would be rude. I seem to have skipped forgiveness and bargaining so far and am still working my way toward gratitude. Because fuck this shit.
But it’s not all doom and gloom. I refuse to spend the next seven days in a downward spiral. Not a chance.
Good Witch Willow made five predictions. My boyfriend was indeed cheating on me, and I did get passed over for promotion. That’s two points. But while I did meet Alistair George Arthur Lennox, we did not instantly fall in love, and I saw no definitive sign that he is my soulmate (not that I would necessarily know what I was looking for). I award this prophecy half a point. As for the lotto, since I could only remember some of the numbers, she misses out on a full point there too. I’ll give her three-quarters of a point. Her total is therefore three and a quarter out of a possible five points. Let’s call it 70 percent. A high enough number to demand action. But low enough to still hold out some hope. (This also counts as acceptance.)
Now to decide how to spend my time.
My inner child immediately takes charge. I need to see the house I grew up in and be with my parents. To smell the faint scent of lemon cleanser and home cooking. It’s a small Spanish-style home in Santa Monica. Three bedrooms and a lovely garden located a good way back from the beach. Dad used to teach at UCLA while Mom managed a local café. But now they’re both retired and doing their own thing.