Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I spend some time talking about my fashion course, which she always loves hearing about. Soon, she leans against the pillows and her eyes grow heavy. I gently let go of her hand and step outside to call Ellie, my best friend.
“Hey, how is she? I’ve been worried sick,” Ellie says.
“She’s okay… ish. She thought she was going to check herself out today.”
“That’s nuts. But that’s Margot. I’m surprised she even let them take her to a hospital.”
“I know, right? She’s sleeping now.”
“Okay, hon. Let me know if I can help.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
“I’m just around the corner, remember. And I work from home. I’m here for you. Both of you.”
“Ellie, thank you. I mean that.”
“Don’t mention it,” she says. “Are you outside?”
She sounds surprised, and that in itself is no surprise. She knows how much I hate storms. I stare at the raging swirls of rain and the bare trees swaying in the wind at the end of the parking lot.
“Trying to overcome my baby-ness, I suppose.”
“You’ve got trauma. Cut yourself some slack.”
“I’m too busy for trauma.”
“I wish that was how it worked.”
“Yeah,” I say grimly. “Me too. Anyway, I’m going to head back in.”
“Talk later. And call me if you need anything.”
I go back to the room, sitting next to Grandma. The six-hour drive from the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City has taken its toll. I fall into a dreamless sleep – always grateful for that; better than nightmares – and wake to Grandma talking fervently with someone.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, back facing me, hunched over her cellphone. “You think you can take any damn thing you want, you little cretin,” she hisses, her slur almost nonexistent in her anger. “You think the world belongs to you, that you’re some grand conqueror, some transcendent specimen, hmm? Hmm?”
When Grandma speaks with big, fancy words, I know she’s pissed.
“Grandma?” I say.
“You’re nothing,” she says, then hangs up the phone.
I walk to the other side of the bed, sit, and meet her eyes. “What was that about?”
She tosses her cell phone onto the side table. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“You don’t need to worry about it.”
“I drove six hours through a storm. A storm. To get here. To see you. You know how tough that was for me. Don’t insult my intelligence when I finally get here.”
She massages her forehead. “I really wish you’d stayed in New York.”
“Stop changing the subject.”
“A granddaughter of mine studying fashion design at FIT. Do you know how special that is–how special you are?”
I grab her shoulders. “Grandma, explain.”
“Aurora, sweet girl. I don’t want to stress you out.”
I laugh in sheer disbelief. “Stress me out? I’m not the one who had a stroke!”
She curls her lip. “I hate these fragile human husks we call bodies.”
“Grandma.”
She lets out a huff of reluctance. “Property developers have been trying to buy the building. The shop. The apartment. I’m one of the last holdouts, so now they’ve decided to get nasty. Hire people to go through the trash. Start nonsensical lawsuits about waste disposal. I know what they’re doing.”
I’m gobsmacked, well and truly. That’s the sort of phrase I read in books, but I’m not sure I’ve ever actually felt. A British friend at college once said to me, “Gobsmacked, darling, as in–smacked right in the bloody gob.” That’s how it feels. Like she punched me in the mouth.
“How long has this been going on?”
Grandma looks away guiltily. “Long enough.”
I stare. She tries to wait me out. We get into a staring battle, which I win when she looks away.
“Just after you went to college this semester.”
I gasp. “For two months!”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” she says.
“How bad is it?” I ask. “Are you going to lose the shop?”
Grandma shakes her head. “They’ll have to kill me to get me out of there.”
I pull her into a hug. “Don’t say things like that.”
“I’m sorry, sweetness.” She strokes her hand through my hair. There’s a croak in her voice. “It’s not good. They’ve already dented my savings and then some. But I’ll keep fighting.”
Guilt twists in my gut. “Maybe I should talk to the school and see if we can get this year’s tuition back.”
“No!” she m. “That is absolutely out of the question.”
“You can’t lose the shop and your apartment.”
“And you can’t lose your chance at following your dream,” Grandma says. “That’s the last I want to hear of it.”
CHAPTER 2
RAIDEN
“One two,” Julian says, holding up the boxing pads.
I slam a quick jab and cross into the pads. My cousin–smaller than me but strong in his own right–grunts as the gloves connect.
“One, two, three,” he says, and I slam another combo into the pads.
We move around the ring, sweat dripping down both of us, making my shirt stick to me. My heart is pounding hard. It’s better than thinking about the crap I’ve been thinking about for the past two weeks, though. Better than thinking about killing someone.