Influenced by Eva Robinson (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

They hadn’t been super-close friends, but Rowan had admired her, which was better. She’d wished Arabella would post more online so she could study it, learn from her. She just wanted to soak up that brilliant presence. She needed someone to emulate.

She glanced at her phone, wondering if she should post some sort of tribute to Arabella. No, it would be exploitative. It would look like she was using a friend’s death to create dramatic content.

And she’d soaked up enough vitriol today already. The comments on her nude photo were tattooed in the inside of her skull.

She’s getting desperate.

She’s thirst trapping Marc, hard. This is sad.

It was like they could see right into her soul. They could read her desperation. She was no Arabella Green, and even death couldn’t dampen her raging jealousy.

She needed more than the wine.

She pulled out a glass vial of white powder again and tapped out another line on the mirror in her lap.

She rolled up a dollar bill, pressed against one nostril, and inhaled. Another line or two, and that confidence that she craved would be back, just like the old days. She’d have the certainty that every word that dropped from her lips was brilliant and hilarious, that she was a goddess among humans. That she was just as clever as the rest of them, or even more so.

Once more, she stared at the pictures of Arabella, and her throat tightened. Arabella’s husband, Adam, was probably a complete wreck right now. Whatever problems they’d had, this must’ve pulled the world out from under him. He’d failed to appreciate her in life. But now? He must realize what an absolute idiot he’d been.

If Rowan died, would Marc be upset? She wanted to think he’d be devastated, weeping on the floor. And then… then he’d write a novel about her. He’d memorialize her on the page. True immortality. It almost seemed tempting, really.

As the coke rushed through her system, she imagined Marc on a wholesome countryside walk with his Stepford girlfriend. A woman who’d never post nudes. What would her name be? Rose or something. A perfect English Rose. She looked after injured woodland animals and old-growth forests.

Rowan opened her phone. Still no message from Marc, no reply to her messages. Nothing about the nude that had been for him.

His indifference felt like a hand around her throat, squeezing. What did she have to do to get his attention?

As the high started to hit her a little harder, her mood brightened again. He’d come around. Soon, he’d realize that Rowan was the best thing that had ever happened to him. So maybe she wasn’t always the nicest person in the world—but nice was boring, wasn’t it? She was funny and sexy. And there was nothing worse than being boring.

Just because she’d made one little mistake didn’t mean true love had to end. You only had one shot at your soul mate, and he knew as well as she did that they were meant for each other.

If he’d seen the photo, he would have responded.

The problem was, obviously, that he hadn’t had the chance to see it. He wasn’t with Rose, growing increasingly bored. No, that was just a story she’d invented. He was probably crying in an empty shed in the English countryside. He was so brokenhearted—still—that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at her photos. She almost felt bad for him, really, devastated as he was.

With the cocaine in her system, everything seemed clear now. It would all turn out fine for her, like it always had. When she put her mind to something, she made it happen. Maybe she wasn’t brilliant or deep, but she got things done.

Smiling now, she opened her phone and copied a link to her newest photo. I was thinking of YOU, she wrote to Marc, and hit send.

A thrill lit her up when she thought of him opening it in his decrepit English shed where he lay sprawled in the dirt. He’d smile for the first time in a month.

The thrill only lasted a moment before she could feel the creeping darkness moving over her mind, like elongating afternoon shadows. It was that mental image of the grey skin…

She was making things worse, wasn’t she?

Death lurked around her. Arabella was dead, and sooner or later, death was coming for everyone. There was no escape.

And what if Rowan spent her life on this crap? Posting nude pictures, getting yelled at by strangers—was that what she wanted to look back on when she lay on her deathbed? No, it wasn’t enough.

Now her neck prickled with that feeling that she was being watched. She rose from the chaise longue and crossed to the balcony window. When she pulled the curtain aside, she stared at the sun rising. Was it already morning? She’d thought it was midnight.

When she turned to look at her apartment, she found every surface littered with dishes and clothes.

Hannah was the kind of friend Rowan needed right now. Someone sensible, smart. A valedictorian. Someone who could truly help her make a difference in the world, so that when her time came, she could feel proud of herself. Someone to help her ward off death.

She paced the wooden floors as she called Hannah.

Hannah picked up right away. “Hello?”

“Hey! Are you up? I figured people with kids wake up early.”

“I’m always awake. Always.”

“I was just thinking about you, Hannah. I know we haven’t been in touch in forever, but it felt really good to see someone from my past. Kind of comforting, I guess.”

“It was a lucky coincidence, running into you. How are you doing?”

“Um, it’s kind of sad, really. One of my friends died. And she studied psychology, like you. She was smart, like you. She went to Oxford. The blog post didn’t explain why she died, and people always wonder about that when someone young dies. It just said she died in Mount Auburn hospital. No explanation. She didn’t do drugs, though. But she could be