AllFreeNovel
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So now she owns it, although she has people to run it for her. She spends her days painting, yes, but also curating her own collection of art to sell and helping others get off the ground. She teaches an English Lit class at the local college, too.
I tell her about my book, the one she read. She has questions about publishing, coming from an English degree, and then about the characters. It’s kind of surprising that we go there, because I just assumed that she said she read it to be nice.
I wasn’t going to quiz her on it.
“Give me the rundown on the others?” I ask.
“Violet and Greyson are married. Violet’s a ballerina with the Boston Ballet Company, and Greyson plays for Boston. She’s nice, a little quiet until you get to know her. Willow is her best friend and more of a socialite than Violet.” Melody glances at me. “She’s sober, just so you know. She and Miles are engaged, with a wedding planned for next summer. They just adopted a dog, and her sister watches it while they travel.”
“That’s nice,” I murmur.
“Willow sings,” she adds. “Um, last I heard she was talking to a record label, but I don’t know what’s happening with that.”
“Wow.”
“Then there’s Aspen and Steele. Aspen’s mom married Steele’s dad, so their family is a bit jumbled. Kind of funny, if you think about it…”
“Uh-huh.”
“Aspen is nice. She plays the piano, and she can come across as tough sometimes, but underneath she’s a sweetheart. You’ll like her.”
“Okay.” I mean, I’m sure she’s right. But I’m also fucking nervous.
I have Beth.
And that’s… it.
“You played hockey?”
I glance at her. “How’d you know about that?”
“Knox was saying how you used to skate circles around him and Miles. As someone who’s not good on skates and has two left feet, I find it inspiring.”
I sink back. “Yeah, well, Dad’s a coach for squirts. Like ten-year-olds. At the time, I had way too much energy, and Mom was more than happy to let me go race around on the ice to get her few minutes of peace and quiet.”
I shouldn’t talk about my mom. An ache forms in my chest, and I try to rub it away. Not that it works. I just feel the lingering tingles of disrupted nerve endings along the scar, and it reminds me that I’m not normal.
That most things in life I’ve cared about have been ripped away from me.
“Your mom?”
“Died,” I murmur.
“I read your dedication to her in your book. I’m sorry for your loss.” She hums. “Mine wanted me dead.”
I stare at her. Melancholy mood officiallybroken. “I think I want to hear this.”
Her telling the story gets me out of my funk, and I find myself enraptured. I mean, I write about twisted things—and sometimes I don’t know where that darkness comes from. But this is a whole new level.
Meanwhile, Knox is convinced I’m worse than my characters.
And Melody’s mom could be a villain right out of the book.
“You’ve dealt with a lot.”
She shrugs. “You have, too. Don’t feel like you need to compare our stories.”
“That’s all I do, really.” The quiet admission stings a bit.
