I was a story riddled with plot holes. “That sounds really scary,” he said. I just nodded.
“Do you feel like you’re getting better?” Everyone wanted me to feed them that story—darkness to light, weakness to strength, broken to whole.
I wanted it, too. “Maybe,” I said. “Honestly, I feel really fragile. I feel like I’ve been taped back together.”
“I know that feeling.” “How are you?” I asked. He shrugged.
“How’s Noah?” I asked. “Not good.” “Um, unpack that for me,” I said.
He just misses Dad. It’s like Noah’s two people, almost: There’s the miniature dudebro who drinks bad vodka
and is the king of his little gang of eighth-grade pseudo-badasses.
And then the kid who crawls into bed with me some nights and cries.
It’s almost like Noah thinks if he screws up enough, Dad will be forced to come out of hiding.”
“He’s heartbroken,” I said. “Yeah, well. Aren’t we all. It’s... I don’t really want to talk about my life, if that’s okay.”
It occurred to me that Davis probably liked what infuriated Daisy—that I didn’t ask too many questions.
Everyone else was so relentlessly curious about the life of the billionaire boy,
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