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I want to ask if he’s sure that Willow is his daughter, but that’s something Jonathan would have already confirmed a hundred times over. This really may be true, and if it is… Willow is Lo’s full sibling. Willow is my half-sister.
Willow speaks, rerouting everyone’s attention. She pushes up her black-rimmed glasses, a strap of her overalls sliding off her shoulder. Her light brown braid is frizzy, and I notice that she shares Lo’s hair color, but her eyes—they’re brown with hazel around the center. Like mine. Maybe now, more than before, it really fucking sinks in. She’s my sister.
It makes our girls happy, and in the end, we all strive to please the people we truly fucking love.
I’d go down with Daisy, to the bitter fucking end.
My jaw drops with Lily and Rose. We’re sisters. All sisters are cool by nature of just being sisters.
It doesn’t reverse what happened. My older, fiercer and obsessive-compulsive sister was just flour-bombed.
Fire brims in her glare and she noticeably shakes. “I’m not writing up a business proposal for you, Richard. I’m defending myself and our unborn child.” Unborn child.
Oh they weren’t kidding about Rose and Connor😭😭
What I’ve learned: justice never comes easy.
And even though the universe rarely tilts our way, in this second, on this magical sleigh, I pretend that we’re going to live forever. That we’ll have a Minnie Meadows. And no one will smite us for our love. Just this once.
Connor is vouching for me after I punched a man at his party, meaning that he values me above his reputation. Above these people. His company. His money. I never, not in a million fucking years, thought I meant that much to him.
People say you can’t describe love, but I have this theory that you can. It’s just subjective. Do you want to know what love feels like for me? It’s breathing and suffocating. Sobbing and smiling. Yearning and fading. To ache that much harder. To live that much larger. It’s every moment. Every single, tiny one. I’ve felt it all with Ryke.
“Daisy Meadows,” he says huskily. “You ready to go for a fucking ride?”
“On transit to the hospital,” the radio says, “Ryke Meadows was pronounced dead.” Price shuts off the news.
When my heavy, weighted eyelids try to fucking open, fluorescent light blisters them, and they close for a moment, my head thumping. I try to escape the darkness again, forcing my eyes to remain wide.
Literally almost had a panic attack😓
“I really thought you died. GBA rushed to break the news about your accident, and they misheard their source. They announced, to the entire world, that you were dead, Ryke. And then other media outlets ran with it too.”
I lost Adam Sully at twenty-seven, and I thought I’d at least have him for another five fucking years. Not ten, not twenty, but I thought five—just give me five more years with my friend.
Regardless of my leg. I’m not sure I can ever climb again.
His casted leg is stretched out with curse words scrawled in black Sharpie. He didn’t care what we wrote, so I suggested our Favorite Sayings from Ryke Meadows. My favorite: I fucking love you. Willow’s: I don’t fucking understand Tumblr. Lo’s: Fuck you, you fucking fuck. Lily’s: Fucking fantastic. Rose’s: No means no. Better yet, fuck no. Connor’s: Connor Cobalt is a fucking narcissist.
I want Sullivan Minnie Meadows to race one-hundred-and-fifty miles per hour. No brakes in sight. Don’t be afraid of the unknown in tomorrow. Don’t be afraid of death. There is no worse life than a hollow one. So be alive every second of every fucking day. That’s what I hope she’ll do.
“My drops of tears I’ll turn to sparks of fire.”
I am the biographer of my own life. And no one can take that away from me.
It could have been fantasy. While I love the idea of swimming with mermaids, climbing aboard a pirate ship, being the last beings on Earth—there is nothing better than my reality. I can’t think of a greater, more magnificent adventure. Than this one.
You know what I’m happy about—my brother, my little fucking brother—he’s thirteen years sober. Thirteen years.
