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)
“It’s complicated. You’re actually predicting all of this, aren’t you?”
“Five, eight, twelve, twenty-four, thirty-nine, and forty-three. And I’m very sorry to tell you this, but you will die next Sunday.”
“What?” I shake my head. She cannot be saying what I think she is saying. Because there is not a chance in hell that this is real. “No. That’s not possible.”
“You might want to say goodbye to your loved ones and get your affairs in order.”
My laughter is brittle with an edge of disbelief. “Are you serious? I mean, you’re joking, right?”
Willow blinks several times and blows out a breath. Like she’s coming back to herself or returning to her version of reality or whatever. Maybe she hit her head on the pavement. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Though she believed in all the supernatural stuff to begin with. Which just goes to validate my belief that people are wild.
“Right,” she says. “Good night.”
“Did you mean right as in you were joking?”
But without another word, she heads off into the night, leaving me standing there stunned.
I ask the night at large, in a not-so-quiet voice, “What in the actual fuck?”
But no one answers. Even the dude with the cell phone has disappeared. Despite the drama and weirdness, no one so much as spares me a glance. The world keeps turning and life goes on. Insert big sigh here.
What I need is to buy the Tylenol, go home, check on Josh, down some of the previously mentioned painkillers (for my poor sore hip and hand), have a long hot shower, and then go to bed.
* * *
By the time the Uber drops me home, the lotto ticket for Saturday night’s big draw is hidden in the bottom of my cross-body bag. I think I remembered most of the numbers. I’ve always been more of a word person. But it’s not like it matters. No one even needs to know I bought the thing. Because it’s stupid. There is no way that Willow is actually psychic. Josh and I are solid. There aren’t even any suitable jobs currently available in my area. And I am not dying in nine days.
The actual definitive proof with regard to all of this, however, is the name she gave me of my supposed soulmate: Alistair George Arthur Lennox. I don’t need to look up who he is because I already know. I doubt there’s anyone on the planet who hasn’t heard of him since the paparazzi love him as much as he loathes them.
I trudge my tired self up the stairs to our second-floor apartment. All my moaning and groaning echoes up the stairwell and out into the uncaring night. The sound is neither brave nor attractive, but I don’t care. If this is how it feels to be almost hit by a car, it officially sucks.
My apartment building dates back to the fifties. Two neat lines of boxlike apartments, all opening onto the central strip of garden running through the middle. It’s a style typical of LA and the times. I walk with my keys sticking out between my fingers like my mom taught me. Just in case.
Music is playing inside. Something by the Arctic Monkeys. Josh must be feeling better. When I left, he was lying in the dark with a wet facecloth covering his eyes and talking in whispers. He doesn’t usually get migraines or headaches. Another reason to be concerned. But he insisted I go to my best friend’s party without him. And I did want to be there for Rebecca.
I unlock the door and toss my purse and the box of painkillers on the kitchen counter. Toeing off my favorite booties has never felt better. They too are sadly scuffed from the night’s drama. Hopefully they can be fixed. An antique mirror hanging on the wall confirms that my long blond hair is a bedraggled mess. So much for beach waves.
There’s no response to my call of “Babe?”
The apartment has a simple layout, with an open living/kitchen/dining space and a separate bathroom and bedroom off to the side. Not particularly large but reasonably affordable and close to work. I asked Josh to move in with me on Valentine’s Day. It was almost our six-month anniversary and the timing felt right. It still gives me a thrill to call it our apartment. I’ve never lived with someone who I was in a committed relationship with before. It is a whole new level of adulthood.
“You’re home early,” he says, stepping out of the bedroom wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. His short blond hair is in disarray, and his smile is strained. Like it won’t quite stick. “Thought you were going dancing after drinks.”
“I was worried about you. How are you feeling?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“You look better. There’s color back in your face.” I turn to show him the tear in my skirt and the graze on my hand. “You’re not going to believe what happened to me tonight. Just let me get the first aid stuff, and I’ll tell you all about it.”