Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
“Don’t be mad, Scar.” I damn near have to shout for her to hear me.
She turns to face me, hurt and fury all over her face. “I heard you, you know?”
“Heard me what?” I rack my brain trying to think of what she could be talking about, because unless she can hear my innermost thoughts, I can’t imagine what she could have heard to have her this pissed off.
I swear, this whole fucking night feels like one step forward and two back.
“Talking about Nora and how worried you are about her because she’s so soft and delicate.”
“What?” I cock my head to the side, trying and failing to get a good read on the situation. “You’re mad that I’m worried about my stepsister?”
“I just think it’s interesting that she’s all you’ve been able to think about tonight. Like, what the fuck, Atlas?”
I down the rest of my beer, trying like hell to keep my cool. But Scarlet almost seems hungry for a fight. “I’m struggling here, Scar. Help me out.”
“If we fucked tonight, would you think about her then too? Would you call her name out when you came?”
“What in the actual hell is wrong with you?” I ask, horrified by what she’s implying.
“I’m just saying you seem a little too concerned.”
“Get up,” I growl, already moving forward.
Scarlet scrambles out of the booth and I stalk past her, heading toward the bar without sparing her so much as a second glance.
“Atlas! Wait!” she hollers after me, but I keep on, determined to settle our tab and leave. This whole night has been a dumpster fire, start to finish.
“Another round?” the bartender asks.
“Cash me out.” I pull out my wallet and pass him my card.
I feel someone tug on my shirt as I sign the bill, and I turn to find Scarlet behind me, her eyes wet with tears.
“Please, Atlas, I didn’t mean—”
“Mean it or not, you said it. You’ve been itching for a fight all night, so you went low to get a reaction out of me.”
She sucks her wobbling lower lip between her teeth and glances down at the sticky bar floor.
“I can give you a ride home or you can call an Uber. Either way, I’m out.”
“You don’t mean that,” she whispers, looking up at me from beneath damp lashes.
“I really do.” I slide my phone out of my pocket, tap open the rideshare app, and tilt my screen toward her. “Now, what’ll it be?”
Right before my eyes, her melancholy and regret morphs into anger. “You’re a real piece of work, Atlas Wallace!” she shouts, garnering us more than a few stares before turning and storming off.
“Guess she’ll find her own way home,” I mutter, closing out of the app and opening my text thread with Ellis.
Me
Heading home. Pissed Scarlet off, nuclear level. Keep an eye out?
Miraculously, he texts me back instantly.
Ellis
10-4. Eyes on her now at the table. Drive safe.
With that settled, I slide my phone back into my pocket and head for my truck. This whole night’s been shit, and the only thing that sounds remotely appealing is climbing into my bed and conking out until morning.
The drive home feels longer than usual, and by the time I make it through the front door and into my room, I’m exhausted.
After brushing my teeth, I strip down to my boxers and all but collapse onto my bed. My eyelids are already heavy as I slip beneath the covers, but as I slide my arm beneath my pillow for support, my fingers brush against something hard.
Nora’s diary.
And just like that, I’m wide awake and flipping to where I left off.
DIARY ENTRY, AGE 13
Dear Diary,
It’s almost my birthday, and Mama keeps asking me what I want and I keep telling her I don’t know and she keeps getting frustrated and saying they don’t sell that at the store. But, Diary, the problem is, they don’t sell what I want…
Unless you can bring people back from the dead for real and I just don’t know it.
My best friends—well, former best friends—told me I needed to get over my dad dying because no one likes sad girls. But how? How am I supposed to just get over it? It’s only been six months since he passed. Six months that somehow feel like the blink of an eye and an eternity all at the same time.
But I can’t just tell Mama all of that, because she’s been smiling recently. And for a while there, I didn’t think I’d ever see her smile again. So, I’ll just keep my mouth shut and make up something that I want so that she can feel like things are the way they should be. And so she’ll think I’m “healing.”
Because I know she feels guilty. Which is kind of dumb because she didn’t do anything. It’s not like she killed him. But like Ms. Maggie (that’s my therapist) says, grief isn’t always logical.