My eyes snap to hers, wide with alarm. Everything I thought I knew about their relationship tilts on its axis. “He hit you?”
“Never,” she whispers. “But your football bruises always coincided with the dips in the share price.”
I wince at the memories that flit through my mind. At cruel hands that should’ve been loving. “You’re sixteen, M. You shouldn’t even care what a share price is.”
“Oh, I don’t care. Like, at all.”
I grin through the burn in my legs. “Good.”
I crank up the speed again, hoping the fire in my legs will burn the confusing mixture of emotions in my chest.
Another day down. God knows how many to go.
I run until I can barely breathe out a goodnight to Mia when she leaves, until I’ve carved myself a shred of hope that I might be tired enough to fall asleep quickly tonight.
I got used to anchoring my own breathing to Ophelia’s, got used to wanting to fall asleep just to wake up beside her. The fiercecopper of her hair was my sunrise, and those two torturous dimples at the base of her spine were my grip on reality.
Now just the weight of my confusion and regret sit on the pillow beside mine.
Ophelia’s betrayal isn’t enough to make me hate her. Article or not, I love her. I don’t know how to make that go away.
Chapter 2
ALEX
[DRAFT]
From:Alex Corbeau-Green
Subject:Torture (noun)the act of inflicting severe pain as punishment
To:Ophelia Winters
Dreamed about the freckles on your thighs last night.
MY COFFEE SCALDSmy lips as I take a sip, unlocking my laptop. Just how I like it.
Rain patters against the glass wall behind me, staining the city a drab shade of gray.
It’s dark out, thanks to a thick blanket of black cloud and a heavy fog that snakes its way through the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan.
I hang up on my morning call with Luis and scroll to the website of a nearby culinary school campus. I book myself and Mia a tour in a couple weeks’ time. Fleur has wanted to be a model for as long as I can remember, Evie has dreamed of being on Broadway since she could walk, Josie’s pretty dead set on a career as Spider-Man, but Mia has never been sure. After making pro and con lists beneath nurse, personal trainer, sports coach, engineer, and athlete, she sighed at the kitchen island and said, “I wish I could just cook food all day.”
Chef, Mia. You want to be a chef.
Idiot.
I love all my sisters equally, but Mia is the one who most often feels like a friend. The idea of her moving out and chasing her dreams of becoming a chef is terrifying; I’d miss her. In my head she’s still six years old.
Jacqueline buzzes me from her desk outside my office. “Mr. Corbeau? Mr. Morello is here.”
“Send him in.”
Rocco Morello is a mountain of a man. I remember meeting Vincenzo, double the size of the other kids his age, and then seeing his father across the room and thinking,Ah, that makes sense.Buzzed hair, watchful eyes, tattoos all the way up his neck, a nasty scar across his forehead. Six foot six with shoulders broader than your average doorway, he used to terrify me as a boy.
Now we’ve ended up here, feeling more like equals.
“None of that instant crap. I don’t want no pods, either. Or coffee bags.Fuckcoffee bags. Andfuckdecaf. You got that?” he barks, on his way in.
