Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
I don’t really know what to say, so I just kind of stare at him. So much hangs between us, so many lies, secrets, so many things, and I don’t even know how to acknowledge it or even talk about it.
Talking means it’s out.
Like the universe knows and will punish you for it.
So I lay back down and stare up at the ceiling. ”Did you mean it? That day?”
Seconds go by, then a full minute. He probably fell asleep, right? I turn toward the wall.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “For what it’s worth, I did mean it back then. And I won’t take it back because it was my truth, and you can’t make that a lie once it’s said out loud. You have to just accept it, own it, and know that in that moment, you were the most honest you’ve ever been, and it ended up breaking you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, suddenly feeling emotional and not angry for the first time in two years. “I was never mad at you. I was mad at what she made us into.”
“I think we can at least both agree she’s the devil.”
“I pray for her death. Is that horrible?”
“She’s not even that pretty.”
“THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!” I nearly shout. “Like what the hell, man?”
Quinn bursts out laughing, then sits up. I look over my shoulder and smile. “More truth?”
I gulp. “Sure.”
“Good.” He lays back down. “I miss my best friend.”
That’s how we end it.
Maybe I’m still drunk.
I know we should have talked years ago, but both of our parents made it impossible. He wasn’t allowed here, and I wasn’t allowed there. In the hallways, news would somehow get back to my dad if we chatted or even looked at each other, and then the resentment between both of us burned. It was a catastrophic firestorm that left nothing in its wake.
And left us both empty.
Very imperfect. Very used. Very alone.
I close my eyes and finally let out the words I should have said a long time ago. “I missed you too.”
I think he’s asleep when he answers back. “You totally slept with your foster sister.”
Weirdly enough, I laugh.
He laughs.
And then I fall asleep, thinking, it must have been a really good dream, having him in my room again and knowing that when I wake up, he’ll still be there telling me that we’ll be ride or die, dicks before chicks, but knowing that he won’t be.
He won’t.
Because when I needed Quinn the most, when he needed me the most—we both bailed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mary-Belle
I wake up to the smell of bacon. Then I truly jolt up from my bed and look around my room, thinking I’m hallucinating. Is his mom back? Is she cooking us actual breakfast?
It’s Saturday.
He said his dad used to cook breakfast on Saturdays. My chest hurts a bit as I try not to think about that night. I grab a black Nike sweatshirt—the first thing I can find—then put on a pair of loose gray sweats that I’m pretty sure Ambrose gave me but can’t remember since I’m still sleepy and my stomach’s growling. I pull my hair into a messy bun and leave my room in search of food. The stairway is long and winding, with its stark white marble stairs as my bare feet slap against each step until I make my way into the main entryway. A thirty-foot ceiling with a huge chandelier greets me as if to say, hey guess what? We’re still perfect; everything’s fine—how could it not be when you walk into this house? A family picture sets on the wall, and I almost stop to stare at it.
Ambrose’s smile is fake.
So is his dad’s.
His mom’s, however, in that trapped moment, seems real, and it hurts my heart even more that she’s gone because I think she tried, she really did, but how does anyone stand this sort of pressure?
Ambrose will grow up to be just like that, constantly picking at lint on his jacket and looking over his shoulder.
I know he was drunk last night, but he at least deserves to go a bit crazy once in his life before the heaviness of his family name comes crashing down on him.
I follow the large pristine hallway into the kitchen with its white walls, black accents, and ginormous stainless steel freezer and wolf appliances. I nearly choke on my tongue and trip over my own feet.
Quinn’s completely shirtless, in nothing but a low pair of gray sweats that are literally hanging off his ass, cooking. I had no clue he looked that good without a shirt, his hair actually touches his neck, messy and still nerd hot, and he’s humming the Home Alone theme song, which is even weirder. Then again, from what I know about Quinn probably more normal than anything.
“Whyyyyyy?” Ambrose bangs his head against the table once, twice, then jerks his head up and glares at Quinn. “You know it’s going to stick in my head now! And don’t mess up my eggs; I like them completely cooked.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him point at someone so aggressively, like it’s life or death, and death is coming.