Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I save the china, but it doesn’t escape Birdie’s notice that her question physically affected me. I risk a glance her way, find her eyes narrowed on me. “Dish,” she demands.
“Dish?” I intone upward, innocently pretending I don’t understand what she’s asking. “Not sure what you mean.”
“I know you like to think me feeble-minded by virtue of my decision to dive—”
“Put your life in danger,” I clarify.
She ignores me, pushing me out of the way and taking the teacup from my hands. She takes over filling the cupboard and I gladly relinquish the responsibility. “But don’t think I don’t notice that me mentioning that film rattled you.”
I step back and reach for a towel, wipe my hands even though they’re clean. My mind drifts—not helpful in any meaningful way.
Five days since Vegas.
Since our drink in the bar.
Since the conversation that rewired something I hadn’t realized was loose inside me. Juno has somehow become a woman I am no longer trying to avoid, but rather someone with whom I look forward to future interactions.
Of course, Juno’s been a ghost since we got back. There are no cameras, no casual run-ins. She and Evan have been nowhere to be seen and it’s been noticeable.
I asked Arch about it yesterday, trying—and failing—to sound indifferent. He told me she’d flown to Los Angeles for meetings on another project and that she’d be back before the Vipers game.
Christ, it irritated me more than it should have that Arch knew where she was and I didn’t. I thought we’d made a connection in the bar that night, but maybe not.
When I don’t rise to Birdie’s bait, she comes at it another way. “Is it the film that bothers you or the filmmaker?”
I don’t want Birdie to know any of this internal turmoil, so I go on the offensive. Leaning back against the counter, I cross my arms over my chest and hook an ankle over the other. “Neither bothers me. I’ve invited her here to the house to film me for my one-on-one interview.”
Birdie’s eyebrows shoot up as she looks back over her shoulder at me. “Really?”
“Yup.”
“Here, in your house?” she asks skeptically.
“Which is why I need you to hurry up and finish getting me unpacked.”
She ignores that and grins, a sparkle in her eye. “Interesting.”
I sigh. “Don’t.”
“I’m merely saying,” she continues, far too pleased, “you haven’t invited anyone into your personal space since—what—Cherry?”
“That’s not true,” I blurt.
“Name one.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
She smirks. “Exactly.”
“This is business, Birdie. She’s filming a documentary and she’s catching a lot of the players in their personal environments.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, clearly not believing me.
And then Birdie does the unthinkable. Rather than press me about whatever is going on with me and Juno, she goes silent. It’s a deadly tactic she’s employed throughout our shared life, because she has steadily been the one I could tell anything to. All my secrets, all my dreams, and all my angst. When my feelings for Cherry changed and I wanted out, Birdie was my sounding board. If not for her, I probably would’ve suffered with that turmoil for a lot longer than I did.
Her silence eats me up quickly, making me want to blurt out my deepest secrets. “She’s… not what I expected,” I finally say.
There’s no ah-ha moment where Birdie spins on me, victoriously claiming she knew there was more than I claimed. Instead, she plays me like a fiddle, slowly turning my way. She’s the model of cool indifference, guaranteed to make me spill my guts.
She tilts her head curiously. “Meaning?”
I consider what sets Juno apart from other women so I can answer my sister truthfully. “She’s intense but she knows when not to push.” I hesitate, then add, “She grew up in a cult.”
Birdie goes still. “The hell?”
I nod. “I figured you saw that when you googled her.”
“No. I only read the first few lines about her awards.”
“Yeah, one of those religious institutions where men have more than one wife and they’re barely teenagers.”
“Eww,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “That’s fucking evil.”
“Agreed. Apparently, Juno was set to marry the pastor on her fourteenth birthday and escaped the night before. Went to the police and the entire church collapsed when they were investigated. It’s why she does what she does now… makes documentaries.”
Birdie studies me, approval in her gaze. I expect her to ask for more details, but she surprises me. “And that doesn’t scare you off?”
A dry laugh escapes, the sound scraping out of my throat before I can stop it. “You’d think it would, right? My aversion to the spotlight, but oddly… it doesn’t. I talked to her in Vegas for a bit and she’s not a sensationalist. I know that for a fact.”
It took me a hot minute to reconcile that Juno’s entire job revolves around attention—framing it, shaping it, asking people to step into it. But what I came away with after our drink in Vegas was that she’s a truth-teller. I think she’s the type of person who refuses to aim the light anywhere it doesn’t belong.