Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Did you get confirmation on the money?” he asks. “Because you’re already late making the payment.”
“I sent you a text about it on Friday.”
“You know I don’t text, kid. Don’t waste my time with that shit.”
I roll my eyes. “My agent worked some magic, and the money will be in my account on Tuesday morning. I’ll transfer it to you as soon as it hits.”
“Good. Because they’re going to want their chunk by the first and, right now, I don’t have enough to give them.”
I sit on the edge of my bed and sigh. My stomach sours as I deal with the mix of emotions that erupt every time Joe and I have this conversation. They come so fast, one after another—grief, guilt, and anger. More guilt. More anger. So much resentment for so many things.
But resentment’s the worst … because despite all the money that I’ve made, it’s why my checking account barely has a five-figure balance. And all I own is my truck.
“You’ll have it,” I say in a monotone voice that sounds hollow, even to me.
“Call me when you send it.”
“Okay.”
The call ends as abruptly as it began.
I stare at the wall, letting myself feel what my mind is processing. The therapist I saw for a while in Denver suggested it. If you allow yourself to feel things, your body doesn’t have a chance to get emotionally constipated. She thought my migraines were my body trying to expel the emotional shit backing up inside me.
That sounded like horseshit. But when I started just letting myself get angry or upset, the intensity of those things did lessen over time. Maybe that’s a small win in all of this. I have to just live with it.
“I have to be.”
I rest my elbows on my knees and let Astrid’s words slip into my brain. It’s a curious choice of words. Those nine letters feel heavier than the entire English language as I roll them around my mind.
Since Wednesday, I’ve pondered that sentence often. I’ve paired it with the things she’s told me and the way she holds her body. Her behavior at the gas station. The flashes of gold in her eyes.
“Some of us didn’t have our needs met as children.”
I might be a dick because I’m tired of trying to convince people that I’m not. What if she’s a control freak because she’s given up relying on people for help?
My eyes widen, and I sit up, wincing like I’ve been punched in the gut.
I open my phone, noting the witch emoji beside her name. I click the info button, and her picture enlarges on my screen.
She’s in a car with her hair pulled back away from her face. Her cheeks are a faint pink, like she’s been laughing. A smile parts her lips and touches the corners of her eyes. I’ve never seen her like this before.
And I know why.
Because I’m ruining her, too.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Astrid
I straighten my shirt—a sapphire-blue top I put entirely too much thought into when getting dressed this afternoon. I’m not the type of girl who obsesses over what she wears. I throw on something appropriate for the occasion and go about my day. But every T-shirt felt too casual, and every button-up too stuffy, and this is definitely not a sundress type of situation. I need to look professional, yet cordial … and I have no idea if I pulled that off.
“I probably should’ve called Audrey for advice,” I mumble, gathering my bag and phone before heaving a breath and then climbing out of my car.
Gray’s neighborhood is abuzz with kids on bicycles and adults on porches, watching the children play. The warm air is perfumed by thick shrubs hosting soft pink peonies in front of the apartments to my left. A screen door to my right is propped open, and eighties music floats on the breeze.
My fingers tap a quick text to my friends.
Me: I’m at Gray’s. Pray for me.
Audrey: You don’t need prayers. You got this!
Gianna: You don’t need prayers. You need condoms.
Audrey: GIANNA.
Gianna: No Bardot this time?
Me: One of you is helpful and one of you is not. I’ll let you think about that.
I slide my phone into my purse and exhale slowly.
This wouldn’t be so terrible if I knew what to expect. My text exchanges with Gray have gone well since our truce, and he’s been amenable to my suggestions with quick replies. As far as I know, he hasn’t missed an appointment or practice either. But I can’t help but wonder if they haven’t gone a little too well. I’m afraid to hope this can work out because when your hope goes up, it’s just a harder fall back to the ground.
I press the doorbell and say a quick prayer of my own since I can’t count on my friends to do it for me.