I don’t even know what that means, but it’s chilling.
“Come on. He’s home between games this week, and agreed to meet for breakfast.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. Well,” she pulls out her phone and looks down. “In half an hour. You look like shit, though, so maybe I don’t know. Shower?”
“This new Pearl is taking some getting used to.”
She grins. “Isn’t it great?”
Better than the fake Pearl with the watery eyes, making me think she’s vulnerable when she’s fucking not, anyway.
I shower and dress fast. Half an hour later, Pearl and I are standing outside a diner that looks like a dive.
“You sure this is the place?” I ask, eyeing the exterior with skepticism. Easton is a pro-football player. He can afford whatever fancy ass brunch spot he wants. This place is a little run-down, with a sun-bleachedBest Coffee in Manhattansign in the window. It reminds me of the diner Rose and I ate at in West Virginia.
“Ugh, I know, it looks gross. But he insisted here, or nothing.”
Inside, she moves through the narrow space like she owns it, heels tapping against the peeling linoleum floor. Somethingin the way she carries herself feels different—like she’s standing taller, more confident. No longer pretending to be meek, less performance.
We spot the top of Eaton’s head, hidden in the back of the diner. He takes up almost the entire bench, especially with the way he’s spreading himself out, likely on purpose. Reluctantly, I take the seat beside Pearl, opposite him.
He’s already eating, doesn’t look up, just stabs his eggs.
“Let’s get this the fuck over with.”
“Oh, Easty, be nice.”
He spears her with a glare. “Do you have any idea what you did to her? Do you feel badat all?”
Pearl flinches. Clearly not as emotionally detached as she wishes. “Of course I feel bad. That’s why we’re here.”
“No, we’re here because you want your friends to like you again.”
She shrugs. “Who cares why I’m here. Now, are you going to tell us how my dear sister is, or did I drag myself to this dump for nothing?”
Easton glances at the plate in front of him. “Best bennies in the city. Not that you’d understand the quality of a good Eggs Benedict. When was the last time you ate calories just for fun, Pearl?”
“Oh, we’re body-shaming now, are we?”
“Any worse than you body-shaming Rose? I heard about the bridesmaid dress incident.” He mutters something that sounds a lot likepsychounder his breath, then takes another stab at his breakfast. Huh. So Easton knew all along the real Pearl.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
He chews, swallows. Glances up at me. I always thought he and Rose were a thing, and I hated him for it, even if I couldn’t name it at the time. Now I see it clearly—he’s the only person who was ever truly in her corner.
“Do you care?”
“I need to know if she’s okay.”
“She’ll be okay. She always is, that’s Rose. Knock her down and she gets back up again, if a little bruised.”
“I don’t want her bruised.”
“Should have thought of that before you fucked her over.”
No shit. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t already told myself, at three in the morning, every night for two weeks. “I have a plan,” I say. “To help her.” It hadn’t really been a plan so much as an idea that’s been percolating since that horrible fucking breakfast nearly two weeks ago, but it’s solidifying into something tangible now.
