Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 107498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Like there's nothing else in the world.
Like he's exactly where he belongs.
I want that. To know what I'm supposed to do, where I'm supposed to be.
There are only two times I feel at home: when I'm reading and when I'm writing.
But neither of those are a career.
I can't write Hunger Games fan fiction full time.
I'm too embarrassed to show anyone but Grandma said fan fiction.
"I'm not gonna lecture you about drinking too much." He crosses the room, sets my cup on the table in front of me. His eyes lock with mine. "I'm just glad you feel like shit."
"You're cruel."
"You're just figuring that out?"
My smile spreads over my lips as I shake my head. "Why are you up this early?"
"I'll give you one guess."
"A tattoo."
He nods.
"Doesn't the shop open at ten?"
"Yeah. This guy is an old friend."
"You mean an interesting tattoo."
He smirks as he scoops eggs onto plates. Two plates. "You know me too well."
"Can I see?" I love seeing his work, but he's secretive about his faded black sketchbook. When he isn't reading or watching TV, he's drawing tattoos in that book.
"If you eat."
My shoulders tense.
Who the hell does he think he is telling me when I should eat?
I'm the only person who says what I do with my body.
But I should eat.
And I need to see that sketchbook.
If Brendon wants to believe I'm taking his bribe, that's fine by me.
I nod an okay.
Brendon brings our plates to the table. He sits across from me and fixes his coffee with a splash of milk and a hint of sugar.
He brings his mug to his lips and takes a long sip.
I do the same with my tea. Mmm, sweet, sweet caffeine. Nutty, rich, warm oolong.
"So," I say. "Where's the tattoo mockup?"
He grabs his worn black sketchbook from the chair next to his and starts flipping through the pages.
This is a normal morning.
Like nothing happened last night.
Like we're still friends. Just friends.
And as much as I hate that we're just friends, it's better than pretty much every other reasonable possibility.
My opening shift drags on forever. It's a slow Friday morning, but my manager Jake talks me into staying late to cover for someone who called in sick.
Em chides me about being a pushover, but it's not like that. It's about taking responsibility. If I don't do it, no one will.
Besides, I need the tip money.
I get home a hundred dollars richer—and that's not counting the California state minimum wage that comes with my paycheck.
I live with my parents, in an apartment in Santa Monica. It's a nice place a dozen blocks from the beach.
It's small, but it's ours.
And it's calm. Quiet. Especially on Friday afternoons.
Only it's not.
My parents aren't at work.
They're sitting at the kitchen table, looking at me with regret in their eyes.
Mom motions to the seat across from hers. "Kaylee, sweetie. Will you sit down? We need to talk."
Chapter Three
Kaylee
My stomach twists. It's not the hangover. That's down to a dull ache.
It's all the dread in Mom's green eyes.
The frown on Dad's face.
He's in his suit. He just came from work. And Mom is in her usual trendy outfit—she does hair at a nice place by the beach. And she usually works on Fridays. She usually works Wednesday through Saturday.
Neither one of them should be home.
Even though my feet are throbbing, I don't move. "I'd rather stand."
"Please, honey." Mom motions to the dining chair. "How about I put on some tea?"
She's nervous. Scared. Which means it's bad.
I don't want to make it harder for her.
But my feet refuse to move toward the table.
I'm not ready for a blow. Any kind of blow. Things are finally good. College starts in a few weeks. I've got my school schedule and my work schedule ironed out. I've got a nice chunk of change in my savings account.
And I'm healthy enough I'm not thinking about how I'm healthy every three minutes.
Mom moves into the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle. She's the person who got me into tea. We still spend afternoons lingering in tea shops together, talking about books and movies and clothes and boys.
Or we did. Until last year.
My parents don't know much, really. Only that I wanted to see a shrink. But that's enough they treat me differently. Like I need to be handled carefully.
Like right now.
Mom fills the tea maker with four scoops of vanilla black. My favorite. Brendon never let me forget my favorite is vanilla.
Dad looks up at me with a sad smile. His hazel eyes are as streaked with regret as Mom's are.
This is something awful.
I tap my toes together. Then my heels. My non-skid shoes are special order Converse knock-offs. They're actually approaching fashionable.
They're a lot more comforting than the looks on my parents' faces.
I continue staring at my scuffed black shoes.
Mom strains the tea into two cups and brings both to the table. She lets out a heavy sigh as she takes her seat.