Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“I understand.” Her voice was strained, and she raked her fingers over her hair. “Jesus, I hate myself for not throwing caution to the wind and just going for it. What’s wrong with me?”
Someone bumped their shoulder against mine on their run to catch a flight. I smirked. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re perfect just the way you are. Hey, I got you a goodbye gift.” I slid the duffel bag from my shoulder and unzipped it, rummaging to find a box the size of a cigarette pack. I tossed it into her hands. She caught it midair, about to pry it open.
“No.” I snapped it shut before she could take a peek. “Open it when you get back home.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I’m flattered that you think I possess that kind of self-control, but have you ever seen me next to a Cinnabon box?”
“If the time in Staindrop has taught me anything, Dot, it’s that you possess a lot of things you don’t know you do. That’s why I didn’t spear Allison’s head after you told me what happened between you two. Because I knew it was your fight to fight. And you did it. You stood up to your bully and you annihilated her. You showed yourself that you can. That you always could. You broke the cycle and didn’t let the cycle break you. You are a fucking rock star, and I want you to remember that every time you doubt yourself. That there’s a guy out there in the world who worships the ground you walk upon. That you marked him so thoroughly, he’ll never forget you.” I grabbed her hand and laced our fingers together. We both looked down, and she noticed the new tattoo on my inner forearm. Of a perfect, round dot. She closed her eyes, fighting tears.
“I want you to know, Ambrose Casablancas, that if I could ever be with anyone, it would be with you.”
I smiled, letting go of her fingers, drifting away, apart. “I know, Dot. I know.”
CAL
oBITCHuary: Hey.
CAL
“Everybody Hurts”—R.E.M.
I spent the flight from Maine to New York crying hysterically in my seat, smearing saliva, snot, and other bodily fluids onto the window. The person sitting next to me was so alarmed and uncomfortable, he took four stretch-your-limbs walks on an hour-and-a-half flight.
I should have been elated Allison had finally gotten hers. Karma had delivered a knockout blow. My childhood enemy had to pay 50K in bail as she awaited trial for what she’d done to me and Row.
Speaking of Row—his good reputation in Staindrop had been restored. Mom texted me that everybody now realized that the deal had always been good for the town. It was all Mayor Murray’s manipulative spins that had gotten people reeling. Word had gotten out and spread like fire in a desert field. The fact that Allison had done the walk of shame into jail helped. But what also helped was that awful Tate guy, who’d decided to send his lovely assistant to one of the town hall meetings and explain what they should expect. She had brought blueprints, renderings, and even did an entire presentation. It turned out that when you were transparent and open with people, they really did come to the table with open hearts and minds.
Glass half-full? I was relieved to leave an encouraged and strong Mom behind. Before I’d left, I’d opened her an Etsy seller account and had even taken super cute pictures of her mittens from all angles. Her first order had come through half an hour after the store was up and running. We’d both jumped up and down and screamed in each other’s faces for five minutes straight.
I’d never told her it had come from a friend in New York who I’d specifically asked to purchase the mittens. I had Venmoed her beforehand to show her I was good for the money.
Glass half-empty? I was devastated to say goodbye to Row. But, I reminded myself, the last eight weeks had been nothing but a weird, roller-coaster experience. The job, the affair, the running… I was just confused. On sensory overload. Yup. That must have been it. I would go back to New York and return to my normal, curated life. Where boys were unwelcome and I was safe to procrastinate in the comfort of my own home.
And by “home,” I meant apartment.
Okay, shoebox.
All I needed was to slide back into my routine. To my job as a waitress. To good tips. To writing, then deleting, then giving myself excuses for why I didn’t record my first podcast episode. I’d lived my entire adult life without Row Casablancas and survived just fine. He wasn’t going to turn everything upside down on me because of a few orgasms, a heartfelt love declaration, and two tattoos of me. I wasn’t so easily swayed.