Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 95765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
She should really just give up too. Let go of the notion that one day we’ll all be bright and breezy again. That one day we’ll play happily families like our whole life didn’t burn down and Mariana didn’t burn with it. That maybe one day I’ll be able to look my brother in the eye and see anything other than hate staring back at me.
His hate is redundant. I despise myself easily enough for the both of us.
The early shift workers are piling into the warehouse as I pull into my parking space. Jake’s space is empty beside mine, just as it’s been every day for the past six months we’ve been trading from this location.
Scott Brothers Logistics the sign on the frontage reads, but now it’s just a name. I watch my tattoos flex as my fingers grip the steering wheel.
The office lights are still off, waiting for me to jolt the place to life for another day of the same old shit.
Goods to pack and dispatch, customers to invoice, money to be made. Fifty percent still goes to big-brother-Scott, even though he hasn’t stepped foot inside this business since the day my Mariana passed away. My Mariana. Fuck what he has to say about it.
I pull out my phone and bring up the text message.
They’re willing to negotiate.
My fingers are shaking as I key in my reply.
It’s not for sale. Not now, not ever.
A tick flashes up on my handset as the message disappears. Job done.
I have plans of my own for that place. I don’t know what they are yet, but I’ll be damned if they involve selling off our old premises to the cloud of vultures circling overhead.
They’d pick at my bones if I let them. Hers too.
The scars on my back itch. Flames prickling across my skin. Under my skin.
I climb out of the truck and slam the door behind me.
And then I run, again. Only this time I’m walking.
This time it’s all in my head.
Abigail
“Abigail Summers! What the hell happened to you?”
I register the question with bated breath.
My skeleton melts and sags. My secrets ready to tumble from my unhinged jaw in a river of pure relief.
It’s the question I’ve been waiting for. The question I figured inevitable from the moment I stepped foot in this building on my first day here.
Lauren Billings is staring right at me when my mouth drops open. It’s only ten minutes past nine when I’m finally ready to blurt my sorry life story to the virtual stranger in front of me. But then she speaks again.
“Last night, I mean. I thought you were heading to Divas with Jack. We were all out. We could’ve hit the dance floor.”
My jaw clamps shut, my skeleton toughening to marble as I shove my heart back in its cage. It pains in protest.
“Last night?” I bluster. “Oh, I was tired. Long week, my dancing shoes weren’t up to much.”
“And I thought you’d be part of the cool gang.” She laughs as she rolls her eyes at me. “Jack thinks you blew him out. You didn’t, right? I mean, you’re still interested?”
It’s sad that she thinks I ever was. I feel like a leaf blowing on the wind, curling at the edges.
“I told Jack we’d do it another time,” I tell her, and she smiles as she takes her papers from the photocopier.
“I should think so. He’s a great catch.” She tips her head. “I think you’d make a good couple. You’d look good together. Well suited.”
I look down at myself. My boring blouse, my knee-length pencil skirt. My semblance of normality.
Well suited.
“He’s really not a dick, you know,” she continues. “He wants to get serious. I mean, he goofs around, but he’s not a jerk. He’d take care of you.”
The bile rises in a heartbeat. Take care of me. The world swims around me as I try to focus on her voice.
“I know some guys around here act like they’re so cool, but he’s not one of them. He really likes you.”
My hands are shaky as I shove my purchase order into the copier. I wish I could turn to jelly in front of her and sob my heart out onto the dull beige antistatic carpet.
But I don’t.
It seems paper walls are tougher than I thought. They get tougher every day.
And still every night they burn.
I hold my breath until my copy comes out the other side, and then I wave it in her general direction, armed with generic excuses about work piling up on my desk. It’s a lie, of course. I have nothing piled up on my desk. I had to dumb down my resume to get this position, downplaying everything I’d been doing for the past six years previous.
Just your average girl called Abigail. Nothing special. Nothing to note.