CHAPTER ONE #2
I hold up my hand to stop her. “Look, we can either go back and forth like this, where you tell me nothing’s wrong and I don’t believe you because you’re clearly lying.
Or we can skip over all this and you just tell me.
Because we both know I’m not going to give up, and you have an early class tomorrow that I don’t think you want to miss. ”
She watches me for a few seconds before stating in her most authoritative voice, “You know, you should try that sometime too. Going to the morning classes.”
“If I did, then I wouldn’t have my eight-hour beauty sleep,” I quip. “And you know how much I hate dark circles.”
“You should also try going to sleep at a decent hour.”
“I will. When I’m forty or something.”
“You—”
“I know you’re trying to turn this around on me right now,” I speak over her. “But I hate to tell you, Riri, I invented that shit, okay? I’m the queen of distractions. You can’t fool me. So why don’t you just tell me why you look all freaked out like you got a B on your test?”
Still, she tries to dodge my question. “I’d never get a B on a test.” Then, “Well, except for stupid sociology. But I still think the professor has it out for me, and—”
“Riri. Talk. Right now.”
She throws me a look before sighing in defeat. “It’s Friday.”
It takes me a second, but then I go on alert.
I was so busy focusing on my date tonight and how to get out of it in a way that wouldn’t cause any blowback—which didn’t really work out—that it completely slipped my mind.
Fridays are important for my best friend, which means I make sure to be there for her every week.
Well, except tonight. I fucking hate my father.
“You got a letter,” I murmur.
She jerks out a nod because the reason why Fridays are so very crucial for Reverie is because, like clockwork, she gets a letter that we both know she eagerly waits for. “I did.”
“And? What does it say?”
She swallows and I slide down to the edge of my seat, my heart banging in my chest. Not a lot of things can do that to me.
I’m not easily scared or distressed. Well, except when it comes to my father, but I have a very good reason to be.
Other than that, though, I’m strong. I’m brave and resourceful. Mostly because I have to be, but still.
When Reverie doesn’t immediately reply, I go even more tense. I fist my hands in my lap as I ask, “Was he mean to you? Did he say something mean to you today? Because if he did, Riri, I swear to God—”
“He’s getting out,” she says, cutting me off.
“Out.”
She swallows again. “In two weeks.”
I frown. “But I thought he said—”
“He wasn’t expecting it,” she says, wringing her hands in her lap. “It came as a surprise. His parole. And he…”
“He what?” I prod when she leaves her sentence hanging.
“He wants to meet me.”
Fuck.
I’ve already established that nothing fazes me.
As much as my father scares me, I’m kind of also used to being his bait for business and financial gain.
I know a day will come when he’ll up the game of these occasional dates and force me to marry a man of his choosing, all so he can get more land.
And I’ll be prepared for that, too, for tying my life to someone I’ll hate with every breath I take, just like I hate my father.
I’ve had years of practice to come to terms with my fate.
But I wasn’t prepared for this. I wasn’t prepared for my best friend to be in a situation like this: meeting a convicted criminal for the first time after only talking to him via letters for the last six months.
“Of course, I’m not going to,” she hastily adds, snapping her notebook closed and thrusting it away.
“You—”
“I mean,” she cuts me off in agitation. “I’m not going to a café to meet some criminal that I’ve only talked to in letters.
I wouldn’t even meet a… I don’t know, a priest that way.
Because it’s insane. It’s crazy. It’s the height of recklessness.
And I’m not reckless. I’m so far from reckless, it’s not funny. ”
She’s right; my best friend is not reckless. She’s the opposite of that: careful, responsible, a rule-follower. Writing to a convicted felon in prison is probably the only thing she’s done that can be called risky.
“How dare he, by the way?” she continues as she gathers her books, straightening the mess.
“How dare he ask me that? We had agreed. No, we’d more than agreed; we’d promised.
He told me that this would be nothing more than a fantasy.
That I was safe with him. Safe to imagine things; tell him things I’ve never told anyone in my life, and I…
” She hiccups, gripping the edge of her textbook.
“I believed him. I thought he was telling the truth, and now, he’s… I’m not… I don’t…”
I hug her then. I wrap my arms around her tightly and try to calm her down.
Which makes me feel utterly useless because what good is a hug when I can’t do more.
When I’ve actually done worse. Because I’m the one responsible for this, aren’t I?
It’s my fault that Reverie is in this situation.
My fault that she started writing letters to a prison inmate in the first place.
Because she did that for me. Because I was failing sociology and asked her to help me with my extra-credit grade—which was to interview a prison inmate—and like the most generous friend she is, she agreed.
So if it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t even be in this position.
“How was your date?” she asks, still hugging me.
“I think we should talk more about you,” I say.
“I don’t want to talk about myself. I’m boring.”
“Boring is good,” I retort softly and more truthfully than she’ll ever know.
“Boring is boring,” she retorts back. “I like your stories better. They’re more fun than mine.”
My heart clenches in my chest and I smile sadly. Then I give her what she asked for, a story. “Well, as soon as he opened his mouth, I realized what a huge mistake I made.”
She chuckles. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
She squeezes her arms around mine. “Why do you go out with these guys?”
My heart twists again and I swallow before I lie, “Because they’re hot. And I still haven’t learned the lesson that hot does not equal interesting. I should just make a pact that I won’t go out with any guy that I meet at the gym.”
She chuckles again. “How’d you get out this time?”
“He went to the restroom and I cut.”
Finally, she laughs and breaks our hug. “You did not.”
I carefully school my expression to appear amused. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I was falling asleep on my dinner.”
She watches me a beat, concern etched on her features. “You need to be careful, Pey. Not all men are… good.”
She’s right. She doesn’t even know how right she is.
Actually, scratch that. She does know. She grew up with a man like that, her father.
Or rather, her drunk, abusive father. And a mother who was just as terrible.
Together, they were a toxic combination, and growing up, all Reverie saw at her house was violence and abuse.
It’s no wonder that she grew up to be cautious and careful, the opposite of her parents, wary of men and this world in general.
Much like me.
Although my story is different. One that I’m not going to share with her. It does make me feel shitty, though, lying to my best friend. The only person in this whole world who gives a crap about me, who’s been with me through everything.
She and I, we grew up together. Her parents worked for my family.
Her mom was my nanny and her dad was one of the ranch hands.
They had a cabin on our ranch, but Reverie spent all her time with me at my house and we were inseparable.
In fact, despite having no familial connection, we even look the same.
With the same shade of blue eyes and golden-blond hair, we look almost identical to each other.
So much so that growing up, we’d take each other’s place and fool people.
She’d go to my cello lessons for me because I hated cello, and I’d kick boys’ asses at our private school who were mean to her just because her parents worked for my parents and she didn’t come from a rich and pretentious background.
Sometimes I wish we really were sisters.
Not only because that would explain this uncanny resemblance between us but also because she’s my family in every other sense, so why not in the traditional sense too.
In any case, she’s the sister I never had, and that’s the very reason I can’t share my ugly secrets with her.
I can’t burden her with my truth. That’s why I lie and tell her stories.
I pretend to be happy and carefree. I pretend that I’m a normal nineteen-year-old, going to college, flirting with boys, going on dates and living my life.
I pretend that my father isn’t a monster, and that my mother is like any other rich, flighty mom, too self-absorbed in herself to bother with me and instead traveling the world.
Oh, and my brother—I’ve got an older brother—isn’t just like my father.
Back in the moment, I throw my best friend a fake smile and say, “I know, but I can take care of myself.”
She takes a few seconds to reply. “I just worry about you.”
“I don’t want you to. And you don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”