Chapters (48)
- Cover
- PRAISE FOR ALEXA MARTIN’S PLAYBOOK SERIES
- Titles by Alexa Martin
- Dedication
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“I’m not an expert on this, but I think that being happy when you get a memory of him is something you should embrace.” He keeps his eyes on the road. I’m sure after the way I flipped during our conversation at Stanley’s, he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Oh, trust me, therapy has told me that you are correct.” I drop my hand between the seat and the door until I feel the button to recline the seat. I close my eyes as I let the seat all the way down. “But even though I know you’re right, I feel bad that I participated in this huge thing that he would’ve loved without him. And that when I did think of him, it wasn’t because I was sad he wasn’t there, it was because he just would have been so proud.”
“I don’t like calling people crazy,” he says. “And if I know anything, I know that grief and pain never make sense. So you just feel what you feel and do the best that you can with it. And after seeing everything that you’ve done, I think you’re doing pretty fucking good.”
Considering I’m drunk and lying down in his car while talking about my dead dad, this is probably the nicest lie he could’ve ever told me.
“That’s nice of you.” I should stop talking. I know I should stop talking. But I don’t. “What’s so crazy is that I thought because my mom died, I’d be okay. Right? Like, if you have one dead parent, the other one shouldn’t be as bad. That was bad logic. Like, really fucking bad. My mom died when I was a baby. I didn’t know her. And as fucked up as this sounds, I don’t miss her. I mean, how can you miss a person you never knew? I miss the idea of her. I miss the idea of having a mom. But this? My dad? Fucking hell. And I want to talk about him all the time. Have you seen Coco?” I don’t give him a chance to answer and even though I remember that this, the loose lips part of being drunk, is the reason I stopped drinking tequila, I still keep talking. “Don’t see it. Or do. It’s beautiful. Just be prepared. I was not prepared watching that on Netflix one night when I thought a nice Disney movie could distract me. Anyways, I want to talk about him because I’m afraid he’ll fade away if I don’t. But I also never want to talk about him because that makes this entire hell experience real and it makes me feel my annoying feelings. If I shove it down, I can be numb. Does that make sense?”