Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
But I’m fresh out of rehab with a bevy of coping mechanism tricks and tools.
So I just take ten calming breaths, redirect my thoughts, and…yup, life still sucks.
But my sobriety isn’t at risk. I can be sad and still resist drugs.
“I’m starving,” I announce as I buckle myself up. Dad slides into the front seat. He and Mom exchange more knowing grins.
I scowl. “Something funny?”
“Nope,” Dad says at the same time Mom explains, “You hadn’t been hungry for months before you went to rehab. I had to chase you down and shove energy bars down your throat. You look terrific, Bailey. You look like…well, you.”
“I’m me, and I’m starving, definitely not for energy bars.” I sniff. “Can we stop at Pizza My Heart on our way home?”
“Can an eighties baby sport a fanny pack without feeling embarrassed?” Captain Random, aka Dad, pumps the air with his fist. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The car slides back into traffic, weaving out of the San Diego airport.
We’re ten minutes into a journey before I break down and blurt out, “Is Lev already in Colorado, or…?”
I feel pathetic asking, considering all signs show he has forgotten about me.
So I hastily add, “I wrote him an apology letter as a part of our seven stages to recovery, but I haven’t sent it yet. Should I slip it into his mailbox or…send it to his school?”
This is actually not a lie. My lying days are over, now that I’m sober.
“He’s in Colorado,” Dad says regretfully, and my entire soul slumps in disappointment.
Dad tugs at his lower lip. “If it makes you feel any better, Dean says they’re chewing him out like a squeaky toy. Fire-hosing info and ripping him several new ones every day. Apparently, being practically a pro athlete ain’t enough there. He throws up every day just from the physical strain of it. Most of his peers are Sea Cadets, Young Marines, or previously enlisted, so they’re used to a lot of the stuff he’s now adapting to.”
“That is…not comforting at all to me.” I wince, thoroughly PTSD’d from Juilliard.
“It is to me.” Dad taps the steering wheel. “Considering he makes my daughter sad.”
Now’s not a good time to confess his precious daughter made Lev literally crawl to her feet in front of his entire class so she wouldn’t hook up with his enemy.
“I’ll send the letter to the academy,” I say decisively.
I want to ask if it looked like he missed me. If he asked about me at all.
But the truth is a powerful weapon, and I don’t particularly want it to blow up my fragile ego right now.
“Oh!” Mom snaps her fingers, mustering excitement again. “Daria said she is bringing her family down for a visit this weekend. Sissi learned how to spell Yves Saint Laurent.”
“That’s…”—I’m trying to come up with the right word—“frightening.”
“And Luna got you tickets to see Ali Wong.”
“That’s amazing. Thanks for telling me, Mom.”
“Sure thing!” Mom squeaks. “She also mentioned something about being swamped admin-wise. She is writing another book, you know. She asked if she could use your top-notch organizational skills and ability to turn everything into a bullet-point list. And pay handsomely for it, of course.”
That is the nicest pity-job offer anyone has ever extended to a recovering addict, so of course, I feel complied to reply, “I won’t charge her a penny. And I’m happy to. It’ll keep me busy.”
“Great!”
“Fun.”
Ah, crap. Lev may have been relying on me, but I have been living for his attention.
Now that it’s gone, who am I anymore?
It’s not just the three of us sitting in the car. There’s also a million-dollar question nestled somewhere between my pile of duffel bags and me.
What are you going to do with the rest of your precious life, Bailey?
Competitive ballet is not on the table. Heck, it’s not even in the same zip code as me.
Even without Juilliard giving me the boot, every battle scar on my body reminds me I’ve survived once—best not to tempt my luck.
If I’m honest, I don’t even think I want a second chance at becoming a ballerina.
These past couple years, I’ve been miserable. Overworked, overstressed, and underappreciative of my good fortune.
I’m not one hundred percent sure what I want to do, but I know what I don’t want to do: chase a dream that punishes you for hoping.
We stop by Pizza My Heart and I get three greasy slices with mushrooms and pineapple (don’t come at me for it), along with a milkshake.
I devour everything before the car slides into the garage, which is less than ten minutes. It does nothing to fill the hole inside of me.
When we get to the house, I don’t unpack right away.
I walk over to my bedroom window and watch Lev’s house. It is amazing how inanimate it looks now that I know he doesn’t live in it anymore.