Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I owe him an in person breakup.
I slip into my car and I text Patrick.
Imogen: Hey? Can I stop by on my way home? We need to talk.
Chapter Thirty
PATRICK
My phone sits on my desk, mocking me, baiting me, daring me.
I stare at Imogen's text for the better part of an hour. I consider claiming exhaustion or plans or a desire to discuss things tomorrow.
But I don't.
I reply.
Patrick: I'll be here all night. You okay?
As if I don't know why she's rushing here after her family dinner.
As if I don't know every single one of her secrets.
This is a start. A step in the right direction.
I'm capable of doing the right thing. I am.
This is fucked.
This is totally and completely fucked.
A sketch doesn't clear my thoughts. I need more. A drink. But I cleaned the place out a few months ago, when Dare made an offhand comment about how I was putting him to shame. I was. I was drinking too much, hiding from too much. And she inspired me—
Imogen, as Hearts and Thorns.
She faced her pain head-on. She worked through it. She dealt with it.
I wanted to be able to do that too. I wanted to be a better version of myself. The kind of guy who does the right thing in this situation. Who doesn't stop and question himself. Or try to ease the knots in his neck with booze.
But I'm not.
There's a bottle of vodka in the back of the freezer. Here for dates. Not that I hosted many. Too much bullshit. After Deidre died, I couldn't take any more bullshit.
I fill a glass with ice, a leftover bottle of Imogen's tonic water, enough vodka to relax my thoughts.
But the drink tastes like her. The unique bitter flavor of quinine on her lips. The two of us, in that bar, drinking gin and tonics, Imogen offering me all the trust in the world.
I didn't know.
She trusted me, and I trusted her, and neither of us had any idea.
We can hold on to that.
Somehow.
I ditch the booze. Pour a glass of water instead. Drink with greedy sips.
She knocks.
Almost an hour exactly. No traffic on Sunday nights. An easy drive up the 405. Plenty of time to think about how she wants to break this to me.
I take a deep breath and I answer. "Hey."
"Hey." Her voice is soft.
I'm not supposed to know why she's here. But I can still read her, tell something is wrong.
Nobody texts we need to talk if they're expecting an easy hang.
"You okay?" I lead her inside.
She closes the door behind her. "Long dinner, you know?"
I nod.
"Do you see your family often?"
"Not as much as I used to," I say.
She shifts her weight between her legs.
"Do you want something to drink?"
"Water. Thanks."
"Sure." I pour her a glass, refill mine, lead her to the couch.
She sits on the other side of the cushions. There's distance between us. A new distance.
She's preparing to do this, to do the right thing.
Of course she is. I know her. As Hearts and Thorns, sure, but I know her.
She follows the wisdom of her tattoo to a T.
Truth is my light.
She's always fighting for honesty, fighting to do the right thing.
But then—
She keeps this to herself too. She doesn't explain the details exactly, but she admits she hasn't shared her history far and wide.
She holds it close, keeps it safe.
"I don't really know how to say this." She takes a long sip and sets her water on the coffee table. "With my ex, it was… I thought I made things clear, but I didn't."
"What things?"
"I thought so much on the way here," she says. "I went through so many possibilities. My sister, she accused me of being a coward, and I think maybe she's right. Because I'm terrified of what this means."
"Slow down."
"I like you." She turns to me. "A lot."
"I like you too."
"But I… this isn't a good idea. The two of us."
"It's not?"
"It's not." She presses her palms into her quads.
"Why not?" I've been following your site for a long time. I just put the pieces together. I'm not a crazy stalker, I swear.
Sorry. I know you don't like when people use the word crazy casually.
Two years ago, I would have rolled my eyes. I would have run from understanding. Now, I know better.
I love the way you take it back. You're right. You've earned it.
I know what happened last year and I don't care.
It doesn't scare me. I promise.
"I did something I shouldn't have done," she says. "After I heard about your sister. I just thought… with the books she had and the way you talked about her… I looked for information and I found things I shouldn't have found. I know what happened. I know she died by suicide."
I don't know what to say.
If I didn't know she knew, what the fuck would I say?