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)
Row was leaving for Paris next week; I was leaving for New York tomorrow, and I had just thrown away fourteen years of friendship for the dubious pleasure of being railed by a man with a rolling pin instead of a penis.
“It was my idea.” Row’s voice sounded disinterested and aloof. I didn’t know why he said that. It absolutely hadn’t been.
“Don’t protect her!” Dylan finally broke free from Row’s grasp, pushing at her big brother’s chest. Her tears flew sideways. He didn’t even budge. Dude was built like a Marvel superhero. “She’s a selfish, mean, heartless bitch who betrayed me!”
“I’m a selfish, mean, heartless asshole who did the same.” His lips barely moved, but a muscle in his chiseled jaw jumped. “Yet I don’t see you plotting my murder.”
“Well, you I have to put up with.” She tossed her hands up exasperatedly. “You’re blood. But she? She is…piss!”
Holy hell. I’d never heard Dylan speak to me that way. Not even close. I really was dead to her.
“Watch your mouth,” he snarled, his face turning frosty, impassive.
Whoa. Why was he defending me?
“She should watch her legs!” Dylan flipped him off. “While she’s at it, she should probably get dressed before she gives Tuck a lap dance.”
“Dylan.” He pinned her with a look that made me shrivel into myself in fear. Dylan stared him down, and it looked like an entire conversation passed between them wordlessly.
With a slow shake of her head, she let her shoulders sag, exhaling. “God, you’re pathetic.”
Row? Pathetic? I doubted he could even spell the word. Row was magnificent. Spectacular. Self-assured, talented, and formidably hot. He’d always been bigger than life. Even as a kid, he had known he was destined to be a great chef. When he was ten, he’d used test tubes and droppers to measure ingredient quantities to come up with new recipes. When I was ten, I had taught myself how to laminate my eyebrows using a glue stick and an eraser.
Finally, the words that were bunched in my throat rushed out like a river.
“Dylan, I’m so, so sorry.” I crouched down, hastily picking up my discarded bra and turtleneck. I’d been wearing Cher’s iconic yellow outfit from Clueless, which I’d sewn for myself. My white knee-length socks were muddied.
“Actually, sorry doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m feeling. What I did was deplorable! It was all a huge mistake. I’m sick to my stomach. Horrified, disgusted, revolted—”
“Stop. I’ll fucking blush.” Row rolled his tongue over his inner cheek, propping his unlaced army boot against the hood of his car. I ignored him. He wasn’t really offended. Sarcasm was his native tongue.
“…revolted, no, repulsed by my own actions,” I continued.
“Did you swallow a whole-ass dictionary?” Row’s whiskey-tinted eyes slanted into furious slits. “Also, you can say it felt like shit until you’re blue in the face, but your body told me a different story when you dripped all over the hood of my car.”
“Argh! Blasphemy.” Dylan pressed her palms to her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. “The mental image is now burned into my retinas, and I have no other choice but to murder both of you.”
“I swear I didn’t mean to! I was drunk,” I continued, lying through my teeth. I had always been a liar. My white lies were like makeup. Small, little concealers designed to fix up the blemishes of my life. To ensure my loved ones’ minds were at ease. Lying was second nature to me. If I thought someone I cared about wasn’t going to like my answer, I made up another one especially for them.
I shoved my arms into my sleeves, covering up, my eyes clinging to Dylan’s beautiful, distressed face. “It was a huge mistake. A one-off.”
I couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t lose my best friend. She was there when, in kindergarten, kids had made fun of me for wearing a socks-and-sandals combo. She had started wearing them to school too, as a fashion statement. A middle finger to the bullies. Dylan always marched to the beat of her own drum. She always did the right thing, even if that thing was scary. The opposite of me, she never lied. She wore the truth like a badge of honor, even if it was ugly.
She had been there when my babushka had passed away, braiding my hair and listening to me for hours. There for the laughs, for the tears. For the college rejection letters, for fights with my parents, and when we’d veg out on the couch in our pj’s, watching Teen Mom and polishing off my entire fridge.
“All I hear is me, me, me.” Dylan’s tear-rimmed eyes rolled in their sockets, and she tipped her head back, chuckling humorlessly. “It’s all about you, isn’t it? You were drunk. You made a mistake. You feel disgusted. You have anxiety. What about me? Did you ever stop to think how much I hate it when my friends hit on my brother? How everyone wants to befriend Dylan Casablancas because her brother is hot?”