Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“I need air.” I push away from the table, making my way to the balcony. The city spreads below like an infection. Sometimes I wonder if shit would be easier if I was just like one of them. Moving through the streets with a basic ass job in a basic ass office.
Atlas closes the door behind himself as I reach into my pocket.
“You good?” He asks, coming up beside me, his arms on the railing. Chicago is a windy bitch tonight, but not even her tantrum can distract me from my thoughts.
I bite the joint into my mouth. “Fucking perfection, brother.” Curling my hand around the end, I blaze the end and puff on it enough until the ember ignites. “Can't you tell?”
Atlas chuckles die in his throat as he drags his eyes away from me and out to the city. “Oh, boy…”
“Girl, actually,” I blow out a cloud of smoke onto the end. “Her name's Ivy.”
“I don't care if her name is Mother Teresa.” He moves closer, and suddenly the balcony feels like a cage. “You know how this is going to end. You know it can't—”
“—shut up, Atlas. Why the fuck do you think I'm here, huh?” My eyes land on him. “Ask yourself that before you come marching out here on your high horse.”
He doesn't answer. That's Atlas. Unfuckwithable.
Breathing out a sigh, he snatches the joint. “I don't envy you.”
“Sure you do,” I widen a smirk at my little brother. “You like chaos.”
He chokes on the smoke, passing it back. “Nah, not this kind. What are we gonna do?”
We're quiet for a moment, as I watch Camille laugh at something my mother says.
“What we've always planned to,” I say, jaw clenched.
Atlas follows my eyes. “You know Khlo hates her, right? That's why she's not here…”
“I know,” I say, dragging my hand over my cheek and stubbing out the cigarette. “Camille's just too dense or self-aware to see it.”
“Which is perfect,” Atlas says, eyes weak on me.
I shrug. “Exactly.”
* * *
Christmas Eve. My family house in Coeur-de-Pierre. I feel like I've been moving on autopilot for months, clearly giving Ivy solid mixed signals.
I've gotten meaner. I know it.
Camille's draped across me on the couch, flicking through her phone. It takes me a second to realize it's my Instagram she's on. Tonight will no doubt end with her sulking about her not being on my socials, and Ivy quite clearly all over it.
My phone vibrates.
Venom: Merry Christmas, Asher.
Just my name. No emoji, no exclamation point, no warmth. My name like she's testing if she still has permission to use it.
I excuse myself. Step onto the patio where the temperature's dropped below freezing. My breath fogs the air.
You too.
Three dots appear. My heart kicks against my ribs.
I'm going to Veilarath for the holidays. Leave in four weeks.
Veilarath. Her home away from home. I know this because I've been watching every update she posts on Instagram.
Alone?
The question is out before I can stop it.
Does it matter?
It shouldn't. For so many fucking reasons it shouldn't.
How long?
Haven't decided.
I do the math. Her birthday's in almost two months.
The balcony door slides open. Camille appears, wrapped in a shawl. “It's freezing out here. What are you doing?”
I ignore her. “Making a call.”
“In this weather?” She shivers dramatically. “Come inside.”
My phone buzzes again.
Actually, forget I said anything. Have a good holiday, Asher.
Forget I said anything. Like she's already regretting reaching out. Like she's closing a door I didn't realize was still open.
Like I'm not about to ruin her life.
Later—much later, when everyone's drunk and loud and no longer paying attention—I escape to my childhood bedroom. The walls still have posters from when I was younger. My old snowboard leans in the corner. Everything frozen in time, preserved like a museum to the person I used to be.
I pull up Ivy's contact.
Type: When do you leave?
Stare at it. Delete it.
Type: Leave him.
Delete it faster.
Type: I'm fucking in love with you.
My thumb hovers over send. One tap. That's all it would take.
I delete it.
A knock. “Hurry up! We wanna eat!” Atlas calls through the door.
I pocket my phone.
I know what I should do. What I need to do.
But I also know what I'm about to do.
Pulling up my contacts, I find Parker's name. Type out a message before I can second-guess it.
Save a room for us in Veilarath.
Send.
Chapter 8
Ivy
Failed marriages create good liars.
Punk raises a brow. “So?”
“So?” I take the filled glass of Cognac.
“My man!” She gestures to her phone with her own drink.
It had already turned dark and locked itself.
I place it onto the table with a chuckle. “Hot. How'd you meet?”
She glares at me. “Wait, you know who he is!”
“Punk, I'm old.” Liquid slips down my throat like burned sugar crystalizing memories I’d much rather forget. “Despite Asher's failed attempts at keeping me young.”
She chuckles, her pixie nose scrunching. “You're not even old. You're twenty-nine, that's not old, and Asher is good for you. He always has been.”