Influenced by Eva Robinson (love story books to read .TXT) 📕

a little dramatic, you know? She was always so mad at her husband.”

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay? You sound…” Hannah trailed off.

Dimly, under the thrill of her high, Rowan knew she wasn’t striking the right tone with this conversation. “I mean, I didn’t really know her that well. I just wanted to be like her. She was like an inspiration, I guess. But I wasn’t like her. I’ve been up all night. I had… a lot of wine.”

“Well, it’s hard to lose someone you admire, even if you weren’t close.”

Hannah seemed to know all the right things to say. “Yes, it is. I’m glad you understand. She introduced me to poetry. I just wonder if she… I just wonder if she ended her own life. She wasn’t sick, and no one mentioned a car accident or anything. She was very, very emotional, I think. She had one of those relationships where she’d get mad at her husband and dump a drink on his head at parties, you know? Very dramatic.”

“Well, she definitely sounds like an interesting person.”

“Yes!” Rowan practically shouted into the phone. “And that’s why I wanted to be like her. Because that’s the most important thing. What’s the point of living if you’re not interesting?”

“Rowan, you’re plenty interesting. Trust me.”

“I don’t know, I guess it got me thinking about lives having meaning and how we have limited time on earth. And if we’re going to die someday, I want to look back thinking I did something memorable. Beautiful people on Instagram are a dime a dozen. But if I helped make that building for those kids…” A brilliant idea struck her. “If I raise enough money, maybe we can dedicate one of the rooms to Arabella!”

“I think that’s a lovely idea.”

The thought electrified her. “It is, isn’t it? But what do you want, Hannah? What do you need in your life?”

“You sound very energized.”

“I’ve just had four espressos. I’m addicted.” Lying was one of her greatest skills.

“What do I want?” Hannah sighed. “I want to sometimes feel like there’s more to me than doing things for other people. More than rushing to fill sippy cups of milk. I want to feel like myself again, I guess. I’m also desperate for something more interesting in my life. Okay, this sounds stupid, because you’re talking about death and doing something meaningful, but I just want to go on vacation, and I don’t want to feel like a mom all the time.”

“You have very beautiful eyes, do you know that?”

She huffed a laugh. “My eyes are permanently bloodshot, and I have bags under them.”

Apparently, Hannah always knew what to say until someone gave her a compliment, then things fell apart.

A shriek in the background interrupted the call. It sounded like a panicked, repeated demand for animal crackers, and Rowan heard Hannah talking to her daughter in soothing tones, rustling around in a cabinet or something. It occurred to Rowan that although she still thought of having a child as a wild and bohemian decision, by age twenty-eight, it was completely normal.

“Have you spoken to my mom yet about testing, Hannah?” asked Rowan.

“Yes, I’m meeting with her in a few days.”

“Awesome. She’ll put you in touch with a whole bunch of new people who need testing. And are you free Friday? My friend Stella is organizing a planning session for the teen center. But it’ll be more like a garden party.”

“Of course! Honestly, I don’t think I’ve been to a party in years.”

Rowan’s mouth was suddenly dry. What were Arabella’s last moments like? There it was again—that creeping shadow over her heart, death sliding across her chest, up her throat…

“Hannah, do you think I should post a tribute to Arabella on Instagram? Or will people think that I’m exploiting her death?”

“Do you use your Instagram to express how you feel? Is it an art form to you?”

Rowan had never really thought of it that way before, but yes. Maybe that was what it was. It was art. And Arabella had helped her make it that way by introducing her to poetry. “Yes, I think so. I express how I feel.”

“So you should do what feels authentic to you. If you’re thinking about Arabella and want to write a tribute to her, then go for it. You have a billion followers. You can’t worry about what they all think, can you? They can’t all like everything you do. Some people hate Chinese food. Some people hate pizza, and puppies. Some people are wrong about things. When you have as big an audience as you do, there will be people who don’t like things you do. Don’t focus on them. They’re not your audience.”

“You are so right, Hannah. I’m really glad we reconnected.” The glorious high was coursing through her veins now. “I’ll text you the info about the party, okay? Maybe we can meet up ahead of time and head over together.”

“Perfect.”

When Rowan hung up, she opened one of her messages.

It simply read, Kill yourself.

And she couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that she would be following in Arabella’s footsteps.

Fourteen

Michael stood in his tiled kitchen, whipping up pancakes for breakfast. He’d make them with strawberries. He wasn’t normally fussed about a good breakfast, but he had a bit of guilt to alleviate. Namely, the woman in his bed whom he desperately wanted to ditch.

He chopped some strawberries into sixteen chunks for the pancakes.

As the first rays of dawn were piercing the opening in his curtains, he’d rushed out of bed despite his fatigue and throbbing headache. He liked the dawn light, and it streamed into his kitchen now, a hazy blend of melon and honey over the redbrick buildings outside.

Irina shuffled into the kitchen, wearing only her thin pink underwear and rubbing her eyes. “Why did you set your alarm for the middle of the night? It can’t be time to work yet.” She smoothed down her platinum bob. Smudges of black makeup darkened her eyes. “I get migraines if I wake