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)
"Hello," I say.
"Tricky?"
It's not her. It's Luna. Why the fuck is Luna calling me?
"I'm out front. Open up," she says.
"How did you get my address?" I ask.
"It's in your file," she says. "Buzz me in first."
"Go away."
"Try again."
I give her the code. I end the call. I check for any contact from Imogen.
There's something.
An entry on her site.
The notification is there, in my email, on my home screen.
Blazed into my brain.
I get up, move through my morning routine, meet Luna at the front door.
She's standing in the sun, the same vivacious, easy to tease, impossibly hip friend (she's rocking a floral sundress and white kicks). "Since I owe you one." She holds out a takeout tray of coffee.
She's the same as always.
I'm the one who's different.
I let her in.
She steps inside, sets the coffee on the table, takes in the place with wide eyes. "Wow, Tricky, this is nice."
"It was Deidre's."
"I figured."
"The books?"
"Yeah."
"'Cause I don't read?" I ask.
"Don't act offended." She slips into a chair and turns to face me. "I've never seen you read, so I found the stocked shelf strange, then I saw the books teenage girls love, and I… guessed."
"I've read most of them."
"I'm sorry," she says.
"It's okay. You're right—"
"About Deidre. Dare told me what happened last night. That it wasn't an accidental overdose. I… I'm really sorry."
"Dare knows?"
She looks at me funny. "Yeah, he said you used to cry about it when you got drunk."
I did?
"He was worried, but he didn't really know how to handle it. I told him he was an idiot and he should have asked me."
"Did 'you're an idiot' not convince him to trust you with his feelings?"
"I guess not." She smiles. "Are you okay?"
"What do you think?"
"Did you sleep?"
"Not really," I say.
"Eat?"
I shake my head and take the coffee. "This is all I need."
"I can make something."
"You're going to cook in my apartment?"
"It's what I'd do for Daisy. Well, what I'd do for Daisy before things got complicated with her and food. So, uh, where's the pancake mix and where are the chocolate chips?"
"Why would I have either of those?"
"Boys are no fun. Seriously. Okay, let's see." She moves into the kitchen and scans the cabinets. Then the fridge. "I can make this work."
"I'm not hungry," I say.
"Too bad. Sit. I'll cook. Then we talk."
"All right." I do.
She pulls out a container of eggs, finds oil, warms a pan.
I stare at the New Entry email.
I don't know what to say. This isn't a safe space anymore. It isn't mine anymore. But what right do I have to complain? I knew the…
I stare at the link until Luna drops off the food.
She sits across from me, sips her coffee, stares.
"Thanks." I pick up my fork, bring a sliver of scrambled eggs to my lips. "Really."
"You're welcome." She waits.
I eat.
"Is that her?" She motions to my cell.
"Yeah."
"She called?"
"No. Her site."
She frowns. "You didn't tell her?"
"No."
"You shouldn't read."
"What's it matter now?" I ask.
"Did she end things?" she asks.
"She will."
"How do you figure?"
"How could she not?" I ask.
"Well, you could do this crazy thing… most men are unfamiliar with the concept. It's called an apology."
"Luna, I don't—"
"Okay. I won't be snarky. But, seriously, Tricky, you're crazy about her. Are you really going to let her go?"
"I can't."
"Can't what?"
"Apologize for reading her site. It would be admitting it was wrong. And it wasn't. I needed that. I needed her."
Luna's eyes narrow.
"What?"
"That's bullshit."
I don't object.
"And, worse, you know it's bullshit."
"No. It's hard to explain. I know I should have stopped reading. I know I should have told her. But apologizing for that feels like admitting I should never have read her site, never fallen in love with her words, and I can't do that."
"Did you really fall in love with her words?"
"Yeah."
"Have you told her that?" she asks.
"No."
She lets out a low sigh. "Seriously, Tricky? You didn't tell her that?"
"It was last night," I say.
"So?"
"She left. She wanted space. I gave it to her."
She leans back in her seat, mollified. "That's perceptive."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"Tell her that." She takes a long sip of her coffee. "Tell her how much she means to you. Trust me, that goes a long way."
But not all the way.
It's not always enough.
Luna stays for a few episodes of trashy reality TV. She invites me to come to Oliver's family lunch, but she doesn't press when I say no. She hugs me goodbye with a, "Seriously, fix this, she's amazing."
In the quiet afternoon air, I feel my sister's absence more. The ache that goes to my bones. The desperate need to understand.
I do what I always do. I look through Deidre's stuff. I turn over old photos.
I open Imogen's site.
It's still there, and it's still offering all this unfiltered understanding.
A gift I took.
A gift I didn't repay.
That's what I need to do.
I need to thank her.