Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
And she wouldn’t have arranged for me to be born to a man who doesn’t have a “head of household” bone in his body.
Poor Dad. He would have been happier as a monk than a father, but he stepped up after my mom died when I was a baby. I was an accident, too, just like Bean, but one my dad clearly wasn’t prepared for. So unprepared, he decided to get married “for my sake” and cursed me with a wicked stepmother during some really critical formative years. It sucked, and things weren’t great at home for a while, but we got by, and we love each other in our odd, awkward way.
He’s going to be so upset when he finds out I can’t play carols with him this Christmas. He loves music, too, and isn’t too shabby on the guitar.
But I’ll be back in action by next year.
I refuse to imagine a future where my fretting fingers never work again. Or where my face looks like I got into a fight in the prison yard.
Yikes, my face. I’m not going to think about that, either.
Female musicians almost always have to be pretty, too, even if they’re just in the band, not on the mic. But that’s a worry for another day. Maybe the scar will be as “minimal” as the other doctor said. Or maybe I’ll be the chick who makes scars as rock ‘n roll cool for women as they are for men.
Then, I’ll develop a raging personality disorder, trash a few hotel rooms, and start dating a male supermodel half my age.
“Gross.” I wrinkle my nose until I remember that makes the stitches pull on my cheek and relax again.
From its new position on the left side of the ceiling, the kidney bean stain laughs.
Before I can demand to know what it finds so funny—or warn it to stop moving around and being a creepy weirdo—the door opens.
Instantly, the energy in the room shifts from creepy-trippy to hopeful-trippy as a breeze sweeps in, carrying the floral sweetness of Bea’s perfume.
“Hey there, honey,” she says. “How are you?”
I turn my head on the pillow, relief rushing through me as she bobs toward the bed on silver crutches. I mean, the crutches aren’t great, obviously—neither is the boot on her foot—but otherwise she looks good.
Better than good.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are glittering, and she looks like she just…
“Glad to see you awake,” a deep voice rumbles from behind her.
I glance back to see Blue’s massive shoulders filling the doorway and instantly realize…
Ohhhh, so that’s why she looks so flushed and alive. Blue’s here. He must have come running as soon as he heard she was in an accident.
Aww!
He really is the sweetest, and he loves her soooo much.
She’s crazy about him, too, of course.
Too bad both of them are so oblivious, but that’s the price you pay for surviving hard things, I guess. Trauma doesn’t let you go lightly into the future with a soft and easy heart, and both of them have been through their share of trauma. Bea barely survived her malignant narcissist of an ex, and reading between the lines, I’m pretty sure Blue grew up in a cult, not some semi-normal hippie commune like he lets on.
My best friend from high school almost got sucked into a cult when she moved to Los Angeles. She was so lonely, and then there the culty people were, right on Hollywood Boulevard, offering community and belonging with a side of fun personality tests. But the personality tests quickly got a whole lot less fun, and Mallory got wind of forced labor, child abuse, and alien souls trapped in a volcano in Hawaii and dipped in the nick of time.
I wonder if Blue’s cult believed in alien volcano ghosts.
I’m about to ask when Beatrice distracts me by leaning down to peer at my cheek.
“Am I Frankenstein?” I ask, the words thick on my still-sluggish tongue. “Frankenstein’s monster?” I correct. “I know the difference. I read the 1818 version and the new one. The old one’s better. I liked that the doctor made the monster because he was a maniac for monsters, not because evil made him do it.”
Bea nods, continuing to examine my wound. “Agreed.”
“Am I a hot monster?” I ask, as Blue tucks a chair beneath her.
She murmurs, “Thank you,” before shooting an amused glance my way. “No, silly. You’re a gorgeous goddess who’s going to heal beautifully. I can tell, already. The stitches are tiny and perfect. But you’re high as a kite, aren’t you?”
I huff. “Yeah. The ceiling’s moving.”
“I’m sorry,” Bea says, sobering. “But it’s probably for the best. You’re all banged up, girl. How bad is the pain?”
I smack my dry lips as I consider the question. “Fine. Mostly. As long as I don’t think about it too much. If I think about it, I can feel all the weird stuff burning in my bones, and that’s…not great.”