Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Thank God, you found them.”
I nod. “Except they ended up leaving. Philip got transferred a few months before I turned eighteen, so I landed in a group home again until I graduated and could go down to Braxton.”
I think of their warm home and the way they always had a ton of food in the fridge that you could just walk up to and take whatever you wanted. They never got mad at me when I pulled my shit—not mad like they should’ve.
“Are they in your life now?” she asks me.
I shake my head. “My car? That was Philip’s. He gave it to me as a going-away present.”
“So they just left you? Alone? With a car?”
“I wasn’t theirs.”
Her brows furrow. “I don’t understand.”
“They’ve tried to call me and write letters, but I just … I can’t.”
A lump forms in my throat as I remember the two people who have been more like a family to me than anyone and how much it hurts when I get a message from them. Because I know they went on with their lives, without me.
My brain automatically thinks of Judy and her proclamation that I was hers now. If only I wasn’t leaving because she just might mean what she said.
I gaze into the distance. I’ve never told anyone these things. Never wanted to. Never thought it was necessary or that it mattered. But an unexpected lightness exists in my chest now that I’ve told Larissa some of my story.
I look at her and smile.
Even though tears well in her eyes, and I feel a little raw and a lot vulnerable, this is where I want to be right now.
She’s nestled down in her blankets, her hair splayed against her pillows. She looks cozy and warm, and something about it pulls at me.
“My turn,” I say. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?”
She grins. “I hoped you would.”
I hop up and turn off the light. Then I climb into bed with her.
And just like we’ve done it before, she curls up against me and falls asleep.
Sixteen
Larissa
My eyes struggle to open.
The sun is bright. Too bright.
I stretch my arms over my head and twist my body to help me wake up. The haze in my head is real. The stream of jumbled images and memories makes it difficult to determine what is real and what is fiction.
I nestle down in my blankets again, cocooning myself in the soft folds of fabric. As soon as I start to drift back into a blissful sleep, I get a whiff of a man’s cologne.
Hollis.
My heart spins to life.
He was here. He is here.
Oh, my god.
Thoughts of rooftop sex and dancing to “Holy” by Justin Bieber flood through my brain.
I sit up in bed. It’s a clumsy, still-half-asleep motion. It’s not pretty.
I pray Hollis isn’t watching.
He’s not.
He’s gone.
All that’s left is the scent of his leathery cologne.
Images replay through my mind on a never-ending spool. His boyish grin while I lured him to the dance floor last night by the end of his tie. The embarrassment in his cheeks when I did my best Britney impression and serenaded him with my rendition of “Make Me” on the dance floor. The way his laughter sounded so light and easy as he did the Dougie with my mom and me—a dance we learned years ago after having a couple too many mimosas with Coy on vacation in Los Angeles.
My head sends a shot of pain behind my eyes, and I wince. I vaguely remember drinking a delicious red wine. How many glasses did I drink?
I pull the blankets back and find a solitary white wrapper from a Ding Dong. My laughter is loud. I wince again, the sudden movement causing a shooting pain to rip across my forehead this time.
I climb out of bed and grab my robe. As I wrap myself up, I notice the chair I usually sit in is turned around and facing the window. There’s a pencil sitting on the table beside it that’s not usually there.
Furrowing my brow, I turn around and head to the hallway.
The house is eerily quiet, without a sign of Hollis at all. I peek into the living room as I pass, thinking maybe he felt weird sleeping with me or something and ended up on the couch—but nope.
I enter the kitchen and find no evidence of him in here either.
Leaning against the counter, I try to put all the pieces together and fill in the blanks.
I remember the wrapper in my bed and then remember him laying against my pillows with one of those little cakes in his hand. A bit of chocolate was on the corner of his mouth as he told me the story about his mom.
My heart sinks to my toes.
He’s so much more burned, as he said, than I ever imagined. I figured he fought with his mom a lot, or she ran off the love of his life. Never in a million years did I imagine the pain she put him through.