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Row didn’t hate me. He didn’t love me either. I would guesstimate his feelings toward me were somewhere on the spectrum between Look at this adorable little moron and Shit, I forgot she existed.
To sum it up, he was a morally gray hunk who was a total red flag—my age group’s favorite color scheme.
I was also a people pleaser, and I really wanted to please Row. So I made complimentary moaning sounds I’d learned from the Pornhub University of Fake Orgasms.
“Fuck. You’re so sweet. So innocent. I want to eat you out.” “I want to eat you out too.” Wait, what? That didn’t sound right.
“Fuck, Dot. Your goddamn existence turns me on. Your mere breathing makes my balls tingle.”
Men said crazy things to get laid. Did women know about this? We could’ve collectively prevented wars.
“You’re not broken, Dot.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, patting my thigh offhandedly. “A little cut, sure. All diamonds are.”
My dad had stood out in the quaint small town of Staindrop, Maine, like a dildo in a church.
Nothing will ruin this for us.” As I said that, the door flung open and in walked Ambrose Casablancas. And a very pregnant Dylan.
Dylan was pregnant. Eighteen months pregnant by the look of it. With triplets.
This was the face of my feminism leaving my body permanently, buying a one-way ticket to Bora Bora.
“Just say the word and I’ll destroy your pussy and your chance of ever coming with any other man.”
Then my eyes landed on the man sitting in front of her. Kieran Carmichael. A privileged piece of shit whose daddy owned the one and only department store in town. The human answer to smegma.
“Cal, leave,” Row barked. “No, Cal, stay.” Dylan knotted her arms over the top of her belly, staring at him pointedly. Wow. Way to make me feel like a Labrador getting trained to be a service dog.
You’re a shiny apple, and do you know what people do to shiny apples?” His nose glided down mine, and I could almost feel them. His pouty, perfect lips. “What?” I croaked. “You eat them.” We were chest to chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. “To the core.”
“I wasn’t the one who cut you out, Dot,” he said. “Dylan did.”
the darkness envies the moon because it helps the dark shine. Don’t let people tell you, you are anything less than perfect.
Once upon a time, I was in love with Calla Litvin. She had broken my heart in two. Whether she had done it knowingly or klutzily didn’t matter. I wasn’t letting her anywhere near that organ again.
“Squeezing colostrum is basically bullying your boobs until they cry.”
You’ve gotten over her. She’s the past. But if that was the truth, why didn’t I tell her I was McMonster?
“Your broken is still the most whole thing I’ve seen.”
“I swear, your ego is the most giant thing I’ve seen.” “That’s not true, and we both know it.”
“But are you saying that if Cal and I hooked up tomorrow, you wouldn’t care?” “Not in the least.”
“Did too. Fair warning—I want much more than fucking this time around. I want dates. I want laughs. I want you to be honest with me. All the stuff that freaks you out for some reason. No strings attached. No commitment. Just fun. A perfect do-over.”
Bitchy. Bitchy. Bitchy. McMonster. Selfless, sweet McMonster. Who seemed to know me inside out. Who could read me like an open book. Could it be? But it couldn’t be. No. It couldn’t. Not him. Not the shiniest boy in Staindrop.
Row looked on high alert. Neither of us seemed ready to acknowledge the fact that he was McMonster and I was Bitchy. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked like a boy. Not a heartthrob, not a world-famous chef, not a formidable boss—just a boy.
“Bitchy,” I said simply. “I’m Bitchy. And you are—” “Mac.” He completed the sentence, a mocking sneer finding his lips. “Feel cheated?” I shook my head. No, I didn’t. I couldn’t explain it without sounding deranged, but I had always known, on some level, I was talking to Row all these years.
“I was in love with you. Honest to fucking God, full-blown, snatch-my-heart-out-and-let-you-use-it-as-a-stress-ball in love with you.” He looked disgusted with himself for uttering each word. “And you didn’t give half a shit about me.”
oBITCHuary: I’m completely normal. McMonster: Respectfully, Cal, you’re not. oBITCHuary: LOL. I meant average. McMonster: You’re not that either. oBITCHuary: What am I, then? McMonster: If I have a say about it? Mine.
“How is she doing?” I was foaming at the mouth. Now was a good time to admit to myself that I did give a shit. Lots of shits, if I was being honest. An entire fucking sewer.
It was only now that I understood Dad’s greatest gift to me wasn’t the bike I’d gotten for Christmas or even the Barbie house he’d gotten me when I was six. He had taught me creativity and imagination. And they were my safe place.
“Dot…” His voice was gruff. “That time you broke your ankle…you didn’t fall, did you?” Everyone had thought my injury was a freak accident. After all, I was a klutz. I closed my eyes. “They chased me.”
“Queen Bitch decided burying me alive was the ultimate solution to her problems. At first, everyone was so shocked they just went along with it. The power of herd mentality, I guess. They flung dirt on my face and body as I cried and screeched and begged her to rethink it. They knew I wouldn’t snitch on them. Knew I would never go against the powerful teammate who led this thing against me. Clout in small schools is everything.”
“I need to know who did this to you.” “Allison.” My eyes met his across the swings. “Queen Bitch is Allison Murray.”
My chest caved inward. Scars ran like a busy road map across his triangular back under the elaborate ink. Long, jagged, faded, roaring poems of pain. Some pink, some white. Some shallow, some deep. All told the story of unbearable pain, years of abuse, and unforgivable trauma.
“If I fall first?” I whispered, wondering if we were still talking about the swings. “You let me kiss you.”
“Dylan…” I groaned into our kiss. “Wrong sibling,” he grumbled huskily,
So. Tate Blackthorn was a sociopath. Just my fucking luck.
I can guarantee you—your dreams don’t wait around for you to get to them. That’s why it’s called chasing a dream. We keep running out of time. Don’t postpone for tomorrow what you can do today.
Row was wrong. Kieran didn’t want me. He wanted Dylan.
“Fuck,” Kieran muttered, bending forward to catch Dylan’s eyes. “Just so you know, the next thing I’m about to do doesn’t mean anything and is solely done to impress you.” “One!” Kieran grabbed me by the waist, tipped me down, cradling the back of my head, and pressed the coldest, driest, most platonic kiss I’d ever been given to my lips.
“Moonlight. Music. Chin tilt. You came here because you wanted me to kiss you, didn’t you?”
“More.” “How much?” He kissed a path down my jaw, then neck, then collarbone. It was a sticky kiss, full of my lip gloss and its fruity, sweet taste. “All of it. I want you,” I said. “I need you,” he hissed.
“It’s really not that hard.” He had scowled, choosing a song. “Truly Madly Deeply” by Savage Garden. My all-time favorite nineties song. I had thought it was a coincidence. Kismet. He’d tossed his phone on the table and opened his arms. “Come in.” Entering his embrace had been like walking straight into home.
“Because you’re it.” He flashed me a sexy grin. “What’s it?” “Everything, baby.”
“No, because I’m about to hit on your sister, whether you like it or not.” I was torn between dislocating his nose again and fist-pumping the air. He wanted Dylan? Was he fucking insane? I loved my sister, but she was a headache.
He pushed off the wall. “Mostly, I want you to be out of my fucking way when I court your sister. Because let me tell you—if I don’t get around you, you bet your ass I’ll get through you. Understand?”
Hot. I think i might like kieran
“Cool. So…whose dick do I have to suck to get a margarita around here?” She sniffled into my shirt. Kieran and I answered in unison. “Mine,” I growled. “His.” He swallowed.
“So, that sounded very unhygienic.” Taylor sighed behind the door. “Still here, by the way. Really need those AirPods.” My eyes widened in alarm. He came back. We must’ve not heard him.
It was that last tattoo that gave me pause, though. Of an anatomic heart with flowers spurting out of it. I remembered him telling me I reminded him of such a thing. And now I understood why. Because the flowers spurting from the heart weren’t just any flowers. They were callas.
