Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
But she left.
I bought myself a fucking Lamborghini after Emma left me—so what am I gonna buy myself this time when the girl doing the leaving is my fantasy sprung to life? A jumbo jet?
Fuck me.
I look down at the glass of whiskey in my hand and, suddenly, a rage wells up inside me like a fucking tsunami. Fuck overcoming. Fuck this shit.
Fuck me.
Without a conscious thought in my head, I hurl my glass against the wall, shattering it into a million tiny pieces and spraying glass and whiskey all over the white fluffy bed.
My chest is heaving. My eyes are stinging. I rub them and force down my emotion. Fuck you, Adele, you fucking bitch. No, I won’t find someone like Kat. I’ll never find someone like her again as long as I fucking live. I’ll be alone and lonely and fucked up and worthless—just like I’ve always been. Just like I’ll always be.
Forever.
41
KAT
Whitney’s sitting in her private jet, a scarf wrapped demurely around her head, looking out the airplane window at Kevin standing out on the tarmac, his arm in a sling.
Why is Kevin’s arm in a sling? Because he took a bullet for Whitney. Because he loves her. And she loves him, too. But the horrible tragedy is that, despite their love, even though he took a freaking bullet for her, they simply can’t be together. And they both know it. Because they’re from different worlds, after all. And life isn’t always fair, motherfucker. But the injustice of it all only makes their love more intense—harder to give up.
Whitney yells to the pilot to stop.
The jet engines abruptly stop and the airplane-steps come down. Whitney runs out of the private plane to Kevin and throws her arms around him. They kiss passionately.
And the most gigantic ugly cry ever released in the history of ugly cries leaves my mouth. “Josh!” I sob, throwing my head back onto the throw pillow on my couch. “Jooooossssshhhhhh!”
Oh, I talked such a good game in front of the karaoke bar, didn’t I? “From here on out,” I said, “we’re gonna do things Josh-Faraday-style. The future doesn’t exist. There are no expectations, no commitments.”
But I was full of shit.
I love him. With all my heart and soul. I don’t want anyone but him.
I know he’s ‘crazy about me.’ And that he’s done a million amazing things for me, just like Richard did for Julia in Pretty Woman. Yes, just like Julia, I’ve been showered with gifts and money and offers to help me in countless ways—and, I suppose, for most women, all of that would be more than enough. But I’m not most women. I’m just like Julia—I want it all. I want a commitment. I want true love. I want a knight in shining armor on a white horse. Goddammit, I want more than florebblaaaaah. And I simply can’t pretend I don’t.
I clutch my stomach and put the pint of Ben & Jerry’s I’ve been scarfing down onto the coffee table. I’m so worked up about all this, I feel physically ill. Queasy. And my nipples are sore, too, by the way, which is really weird. I know Josh pinched my nipples pretty hard yesterday when he fucked me in the bathroom at The Pine Box, but did he really pinch them that hard? Jeez. They still hurt.
Whitney’s glowing face appears onscreen in close-up, her teeth a spectacular shade of computer-paper-white, her mocha skin flawless.
She begins singing The Song—the most famous song in the world.
Oh, God, she’s an angel. My beautiful Whitney.
And I’m a sobbing mess. Again.
This song was written for Josh and me and no one else. I love him and he doesn’t love me back. He’s crazy about me, sure—addicted to me. But he can’t promise me tomorrow, he says. Which is a telltale sign he’s not in love with me. Because when you love someone, you’re willing to promise forever, even though you intellectually know you can’t make that promise. You don’t not promise forever to the one you love simply because we’re objectively mortal—you promise it, regardless, and hope forever turns out to be more than fifty-two days.
No one knows what life might bring or what might happen two months from now, I get that, but the point is that when you’re in love, you’re stupid enough to think you can promise forever. You wanna believe it so badly, you’re willing to tell that little white lie. And if you’re not willing to tell it, well then, that’s the surest way to know you’re not really in love, after all.
Whitney’s done singing.
I grab the remote control, and just that sudden movement makes my stomach flip over violently, almost like I’m gonna barf. But that’s ridiculous. I hardly drank a drop tonight.
Out of nowhere, my body dry heaves.
What the hell? I cock my head to the side, totally perplexed. What the heck was that? My body heaves again—only this time, holy shit, fluid has gushed into my mouth.