Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Twice the rest of the group returned with him to Jean’s side so they could touch up their sunblock. Cat batted Jean’s hands out of the way so she could help with his neck and temples. She leaned back to inspect her handiwork, offered him a triumphant thumbs-up, and bolted back to the tide with a whoop that left Jean’s ears ringing.
At a quarter to five they finally went their separate ways, Cody and Lucas back south to Carlsbad and the remaining four to Laila’s car. By the time they got home, Jeremy had gotten a heads-up from one of his nonstop group chats: Zane Reacher had been found unconscious on his bathroom floor. His family was begging for privacy, but the loudest theory was overdose. He was hospitalized but reportedly stable.
“You saved his life,” Laila told Jean as she got the front door open for them. “Be proud.”
“They’re dropping like flies,” Cat said, with a distant look on her face. “Chances are good Coach will send a psychiatrist out to see you as soon as he can find one.”
“I don’t need one,” Jean said. “I will refuse.”
Cat flicked him a pitying look. “I can think of very few people who need one more. No judgment, seriously. The right therapist can be legit life changing—just look at Jeremy for proof.” She jerked a thumb over at Jeremy, who didn’t look at all concerned to be snitched on. “I’d say you should ask for her number since we all know she’s good, but I don’t think any of us can afford her.”
Jeremy gave a helpless shrug. “She was Mom’s pick. Speak of the devil,” he added as his phone made an awful noise. Jean watched the way his expression went tense and distant as he considered the newest message on his phone. Jeremy tapped out a quick response and stuffed his phone into the bag Jean was still carrying. When he realized Jean was watching him, he offered a see-through smile and said, “Nothing to worry about.”
Jean turned away, but Laila put a hand in his way and asked, “Do you want to talk?”
“I want to be left alone,” Jean said.
“Even by me?” Jeremy asked. When Jean looked at him, Jeremy shrugged and said, “You said I’m supposed to be underfoot. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to talk, but I just feel like you shouldn’t be alone today.”
“After you’re dressed,” Jean said, and Laila dropped her hand.
Jeremy trailed him down the hall to his bedroom so he could get some clothes out of the closet. It was inevitable Jean would end up by his dresser, but he waited to go through it until Jeremy left for a quick rinse-off shower. Jean opened the top drawer and let his long fingers drift over his destroyed magnets and postcards.
He pulled one of his notebooks out at random and slowly flipped through it, scanning the jet-black insults scribbled across each odd page. He checked the letters as he found them, skimming for names or jersey numbers, but Jeremy returned before Jean could find a letter from Colleen or Wayne. Jean closed his notebook before Jeremy could see what the Ravens had done to the pages.
Jeremy turned Barkbark back around before inviting himself to sit cross-legged in the middle of Jean’s bed. He studied Jean but said nothing. Jean surveyed the room with a slow gaze: the pale white and gray sheets on the only bed, the darker gray curtains that helped filter out most of the evening sun, and the closet with trendy clothes in a half-dozen muted colors. Jean looked down at his hands, free of bruises but faintly mottled with small scars from years of violence.
He thought of Wayne’s ambition and unrelenting drive and how Colleen moved with unrepentant violence on the court. He thought of three years as Zane’s roommate, two years as partners, and one wretched little runaway that broke Zane’s threadbare patience at long last. He thought of Zane’s unwavering gaze on the back of Colleen’s head while she was getting dressed, the way he reached for her hair when her back was turned to him and the way he always pulled back before he could give himself away with a tender touch.
I am a Moreau, he thought. He had his place. He had his purpose. It was his job to submit to the Moriyamas, to be whatever they demanded of him and to take whatever punishments they felt like doling out. He’d been sold into this with no choice and no way out. But what of his hateful, hated Ravens? Surely they’d heard the indoctrination rumors before signing their names on Edgar Allan’s contracts, but no gossip could have prepared them for the ugly reality of the Nest. They came for fame and fortune without knowing what it would cost them.