Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Not sure what time period we’re supposed to be in here.
After getting home last night and reviving my phone, I changed into one of my granny nighties with frills and red hearts that have faded to pink, washed my face, and crashed, though I did send Mika a text right as I was falling asleep.
I open the door to find her wearing a worried expression, which is still ten out of ten gorgeous on her. She’s rocking unnaturally red hair, has slayed her makeup, and is sporting a corset top with long lace sleeves and a black velvet skirt.
She’s two years older than I am. I didn’t know her when she was fourteen, but that’s when she went goth. We went to different schools and still live on completely different sides of Providence. It was just an incredibly lucky encounter that I needed a corset for Drama Club. I thought the adorable little goth store downtown would have exactly what I needed, and they did.
They had the corset and Mika.
She’s drawn her brows on in two red, whip-thin lines, and they plunge over her nose as she steps inside. “Babe! You can’t just text me that you caught Kevin cheating on you and that your whole world has crashed into a dumpster fire deep in an enchanted forest where wizards changed the raccoons into mutated beasts with really long teeth and sharp nails, and they’re so hungry for blood that they’re swarming up and putting together an infallible plot to eat your eyeballs and slowly work their way into your brain matter.”
Shit sticks. I know better than to text when I’m an emotional wreck and half asleep. “I did send that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, and then you didn’t answer me, which led me to believe that the raccoons did eat your brain.”
It’s not even five in the morning. How on earth did she get ready and get her ass over here this fast? She lives on the expensive side of Providence in her mom’s freaking mansion. I live on…well, not the expensive side. It’s a bit of a hike.
“Ten thousand hours,” Mika responds. She shuts the door and kicks off her six-inch leather platforms with copious amounts of silver skulls. “The makeup. It only takes ten minutes now that I have so much practice.”
She always knows what I’m thinking, but it’s hard to get a good read on her. The red contacts and all the makeup are a pretty good poker face in themselves.
“We have an issue,” Mika grunts as she flops down on my couch.
My whole condo is basically a soul-sucking color scheme of black, white, and grey. My parents helped me with the down payment, and my mom very helpfully paid for some good quality furniture that “would be trendy for years” and that I “could keep for a lifetime,” even if I didn’t like it. She picked out the colors because “neutrals sell well in the end.”
“My life is also an engineered dumpster fire,” Mika groans, propping her bare feet up on the espresso-hued coffee table and wriggling her toes so her black sparkly nail polish winks in the red glow from the lava lamp up on the bookshelf.
I have a few guilty pleasures in the form of personal touches in here.
There’s something about shared misery that unites people. We’re already besties, so we’ll cry together regardless, but it’s nice to plop down beside her and wither together in our collective nuclear waste.
“Kevin is a total dickwad, by the way, and I can give you some money to get your car fixed if you need it.”
“I…I think I have it covered.” My face heats up painfully when I think about the loan from last night. Two grand in cash, tucked safely in my purse.
Did that even happen?
Right now, last night feels like a nightmare that veered off and turned into a very strange fantasy dream that involved one very incredible piano, one crazy hot mystery zaddy, and robot spiders.
Alright, minus the robot spider and add in a tow truck.
Mika has one of those new fold phones. When she opens it, it pretty much looks like a tablet. She swipes a few times and passes it over to me. “Mom woke me up at the butt crack of dawn this morning, freaking out about my dad.”
“What about your dad?” I haven’t looked at her phone yet. I’m too focused on her face. Something about her tone tells me a major storm cloud is about to piss all over our already rained-out parade.
“He’s getting married. My mom had to find out via the internet. Apparently, the story broke super early this morning. I guess it made the news because it’s a socialite thing, and Providence isn’t that big. He’s marrying Geneiva Barnet. Daughter of Wendell Barnet, a hotel mogul from Europe.”