Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“I don’t know. Is this my home?”
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” She’s pissed, and for some reason, it takes a weight off my shoulders. She’s with Dare now, all fucking coupled up. I’m not trying to be a third wheel. I was supposed to be gone, making a life for myself. Instead, I ended up right back where I started with nothing to show for it. I have no one to blame but myself—least of all Lo—but I still find myself feeling bitter.
Truth is, I’m not sure I’m ready to come back. Sully’s is getting old, but at least I can drink and smoke and fuck and coast in peace. No one to call me on my shit. No one to guilt-trip me. No one to look at me with disappointment in their eyes.
Lo comes up behind me, spinning me around by my elbow. I focus on a spot on the wall behind her, not meeting her eyes. “Your home is wherever I am. It’s always been that way, always will be. If you want to go fuck off and do your thing, fine. But you always have a home with me. School or no school. Dare or no Dare. Whether we’re fighting or not. It’s you and me.”
She says that now, but if she knew where I’ve been and what I’ve been doing, she’d feel a hell of a lot differently.
Lo pulls me in for a hug and I let her, resting my chin on the top of her head. I fucking hate when she does this, making me feel my emotions and shit. I pull back, clearing my throat.
“Stay—or go—but I’m going to bed. Apparently, I’ve got a squatter to deal with in the morning.”
I bob my head and turn for the door. She looks disappointed that I’m leaving, but I’ll be back. Sooner than she thinks.
“Oh, and Lo?” I say, one hand on the doorknob. She looks at me in question. “Don’t tell her I told you.”
Her eyebrows pinch together, perplexed.
“Shit’s embarrassing.”
She nods, her eyes softening like I’m some fucking saint. “I won’t tell anyone about that bleeding heart you got there either.”
I roll my eyes, giving her the middle finger, hearing her laughter trailing after me.
* * *
“GOOD MORNING, SLEEPING BEAUTY.” THE dry voice cuts through my sleep and I jump up, pushing the headphones off my ears, heart racing, to see Lo sitting on the seat opposite me.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I wince, my neck hurting from the position I slept in and my left ear sore from the headphone pressing into it all night.
“Relax,” Lo says, both hands cradling a mug. “Coffee?” She slides a second mug toward me. I eye it, hesitating.
“Are you mad?” I ask sheepishly. I consider saying that I simply fell asleep. But I’ve been caught. Might as well not add insult to injury by lying about it.
She exhales audibly, cocking her head to the side. “Depends. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
I take a sip of the coffee—the black coffee—trying to choke down the bitter taste to buy time. Lo waits patiently, big, expressive eyes boring into me.
“My grandparents have a vacation rental here, and they said I could stay there while I go to school.”
“Mhm,” she prompts, folding her hands under her chin and listening intently.
“They rented it out to a retired couple, and apparently forgot about it. By the time they figured it out, I was already packed and ready to go.” Not to mention, my mom had already sold the house and was on a plane to Hawaii. But I keep that part to myself. “I was staying with a friend at the dorms, but someone complained and, well… here I am.” I shrug.
“Where’s your dad?”
My chest squeezes at the mention of him, and I hope to hell I don’t do something stupid like start to cry. Grief is a weird thing. You think you’re doing fine. You think you’re over it, for lack of a better phrase, but the smallest thing can have you choking on despair. Scents. Places. Songs. Nothing is worse than being blindsided by a song, and with my dad, there’s a song for every occasion. “Alison”—my namesake—by Elvis Costello, “Good Riddance” by Green Day, the song I chose for his funeral, and pretty much anything by Radiohead are some of the biggest offenders.
When I don’t answer right away, Lo continues. “You did used to come in with him, right? Or am I crazy?”
“You’re not crazy,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and easy. Unaffected. “I didn’t think you remembered us. He was in a car accident last year. He didn’t make it.”
“Shit,” she breathes. “I’m sorry. I never know what to say in these situations. Other than that sucks.”
I huff out a laugh. “That it does.”