Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
He’s probably right. Because I’m a damn good junior TV producer no matter who I love or how I love. Guess that’s part of finding my way.
A few minutes later, Zach trots downstairs. “Are you ready, Jules?”
In medias res, indeed.
“Ready,” I say, then I dip a hand into my purse and grab some Mentos.
Zach motors to the fridge and snags a bottle of Diet Coke. The three of us head to the backyard and conduct an experiment, making a very messy fountain.
When Zach goes to bed, his father pulls me close in the kitchen, and kisses me desperately. “I want to take you to my home in Miami next month. Just you and me.”
I say yes.
A few days later, we walk up the steps of the New York Public Library together. I’m not holding Zach’s hand. That’s a little insta-family for me.
But I’m right there with them—this man who adores me, and his son who’s welcomed me into his life like I’m maybe the cool aunt he’s always wanted.
Like this is where my story was always meant to be.
As they go through the doors, I lag behind for a moment. I glance back at the city that’s my home. My friends are scattered around Manhattan, my family over the Brooklyn Bridge.
Later, I’ll look up at the stars and I’ll see my sister. For now, I look down at the two anklets I wear. Mine and hers. Stars and flowers.
When I go inside, I’m so much more than happy enough.
At the end of the summer on a Saturday night, I adjust Lady Gaga in front of the mirror in my home, making sure the strands look just right. Then, I strike a pose with Harlow, wearing Miley, and Layla, dolled up as Taylor.
“Got my sparkle bodysuit, my wig, and now I’m good to go,” Layla says, blowing a lipstick kiss at our reflection.
Harlow juts out a hip, showing off her strappy little black dress, looking like the honey-voiced singer in her wig. “We’ll duet, baby.”
“Hello! We’ll be a band,” Layla adds, then squeezes my shoulder. “We have Lady Gaga here at the helm.”
“We’ll call ourselves The Wigs Made Me Do It,” I say, then we take a picture and head to Rebel Beat, a club near Gramercy Park.
Ethan’s band, Outrageous Record, is playing here tonight. His band’s become a bit of a house act, coming back, like a returning son, to the place where they broke out a few years ago.
We get our drinks, stake out a spot by the lip of the stage, and then rock out as Ethan and the crew roll through some of their most popular tunes. When they finish “Blown Away,” there’s barely a second for the crowd to lose its mind before Ethan says into the mic, “And now we have a special guest. This girl—you’re going to say you heard her when. Camden.” He gestures to the wings, and my bestie joins him onstage, in her vegan leather pants, belting out a song she wrote, “Whiskey Memories,” with Ethan harmonizing along.
And wow.
My girl’s got pipes and stage presence.
Talk about blown away. When I meet her later offstage, I say, “I feel like I just witnessed the start of something big.”
She’s glowing as she crosses her fingers. “Let’s hope so,” she says, then she adds, “I told you it was about the music. Ethan and me.”
“Fine, fine,” I concede.
A few days later, a video of her performance of “Whiskey Memories” goes viral. Guess someone’s about to be a rock star.
A week later, when Zach heads to Connecticut to see his grandparents for a few days, I pack up for a getaway trip. But I don’t head straight to Finn’s.
Instead, he sends a town car to pick me up.
I drop my suitcase in the back, and when I reach the Albrecht Mansion, I thank the driver, who’ll wait for us, then slide on my mask.
Tonight, I’m an angel. A very naughty one. I give the password to the bodyguard twins. “I’m good but not an angel,” I say.
“You may go inside.”
Once there, I look for a man dressed all in black, with a red mask.
We pretend we’re strangers at the party. In the library. And in the car on the way back to his home.
Then he fucks me like I’m his one-night stand and the love of his life.
After my third, or sixth, who knows how many orgasms, I’m worn out in the best of ways, so Finn pours me a glass of wine, and asks me if I want to sit in the backyard and enjoy the warm night.
“No. Let’s go to the balcony.”
He crooks a brow. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I’m not cured. I’ll never be cured. But I’ve learned from Shira that sometimes, when I’m less anxious, the uncomfortable thoughts come less frequently. And they don’t have such a hold of me.