Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
I cannot fucking believe this. This guy spent a month trying to bulldoze his way back into my life, begging my forgiveness on a daily basis. And until last night, I was standing my ground, maintaining my boundaries. But he steamrolled past those too. Last night when he held me in his arms, I was ready to forgive him, even without knowing the whole truth about prom. I’d reminded myself Fenn had saved my life, that I was alive because of him, and wasn’t that the most important thing?
God. There must be something wrong with me. An inherent flaw in my programming that compels me to commit the same mistakes and be constantly amazed to find myself alone.
Or maybe’s it’s just Fenn.
Hiding in plain sight like a colorless, odorless poison.
Microdosing himself into my veins until my heart stops beating.
I can’t believe I ever let him convince me he was my friend. I was so close to forgiving him, against my better judgment and every warning bell blaring in my head. But Fenn Bishop is impervious to all my natural defenses, slithering inside my brain to whisper just the right lies and empty promises.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Funny thing is, I thought this time he was ready to tell the truth, that after weeks of begging for the chance to come clean, he wouldn’t screw it up this time. Only here I am again, the fool. Flat on my face.
The tears dry up as the pain surrounding my heart hardens into something darker, more hostile. Anger flares inside my skull, a deafening, howling storm of rage and resentment that intensifies each time I reread Fenn’s messages.
I can’t fucking stand it any longer.
Dropping my phone on the bed, I force myself to go take a shower. I crank the temperature to scalding and then stand under the spray, breathing in clouds of steam before tipping my face upward. I let the hot water soak me. Soothe me. Somehow, it works. I close my eyes, and the first peaceful thought I’ve had all day drifts in among the clutter.
The memory of speeding through the mountains with the windows down.
Eating ice cream in a random town.
Getting lost and forgetting who I am.
As the heat and steam loosen my tense muscles, I remember the last time I was happy. Not drunk-happy or revenge-happy or orgasm-happy. Just…happy.
After the shower, I throw on a pair of yoga pants, a striped sweater, and warm wool socks. I need to feed Silver before I’m called down for dinner, so I reach into my top desk drawer for the Ziploc bag of food I stashed there. Today we’ve officially graduated to alfalfa hay and plain pellets that are supposedly high in fiber. Silver still seems weak, though. I really wish she would move around more.
When I lift the lid of her shoebox and peek in, she’s once again still.
“Wake up, kiddo,” I say softly. “Alfalfa time.”
I’ve been leaving her food in the corner of the box next to a shallow water dish. Usually when I prep her food, her eyes pop open and she makes the cutest squeaking noises. This evening, she remains silent.
“What’s wrong?” I coo. “Come on, cutie pie, let’s have some dinner.”
Silver doesn’t react. Ears don’t even twitch.
It takes a little while longer before I realize what’s wrong.
What’s wrong is that Silver is dead.
I feel it happening almost in slow motion—I feel myself going numb. Shutting down. Just like Silver hadn’t reacted to the sound of my voice, I don’t react to the fact that she’s gone. I stare at her motionless body. Then I replace the lid of the shoebox.
“Case! Dinner!”
At Sloane’s shout, I exit my bedroom on autopilot, the box tucked under my arm. I go downstairs and enter the kitchen without a word, finding my sister in the process of removing her oven mitts. Steam rises from the lasagna pan cooling on the stove.
“Set the table?” Sloane says over her shoulder.
“Sure.”
She turns, laughing when she spots the shoebox. “Silver’s joining us for dinner?”
“She’s dead,” I answer.
“Oh shit.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Dad’s voice sounds from the doorway. He’d walked in just in time to overhear us. “I’m so sorry.”
I shrug.
With a sigh, he walks over and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll get the shovel.”
“Don’t bother.” I ease out of his grasp and walk to the counter, opening the tall drawer that houses our trash can.
“Case?” he says uneasily.
“We always knew she was going to die. There’s no point in a burial. Seems like a lot of effort for no reason.”
There’s silence in my wake as I drop the box in the garbage. I shut the drawer and turn around to find two confused faces.
“What?” I mutter.
“You always bury your strays.” The groove in Sloane’s forehead gets deeper. “You’ve been holding animal funerals since you were six years old.”