Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
I was currently in the research phase of the operation. Which in practice meant I was occasionally googling how to start a true crime podcast. Now all I needed was written episodes, a studio, a producer, a marketing manager, and motivation.
Clearly, I was this close to making it happen.
“I’m not talking about your work in New York.” Mom shook her head, sticking her spoon in a mountain of pistachio ice cream to flick a lock of hair off my face lovingly. “I’m talking about this place. This town. If you’re going to stick around for a while, you need a job.”
“Oh. Sure. Right.” I stared at her skeptically. “And where am I going to get that?”
Staindrop wasn’t exactly the Big Apple of opportunities. It was more…the Small Raisin of unemployment. I knew she was right. I did need a job. I’d just figured that job was going to be selling my internal organs on the black market or being a phone sex operator for old married men.
“Let me tell you where you’re not going to get it—this couch.”
“I’ll get a job.” I waved her off airily, with confidence I definitely did not feel.
“You better because I don’t want it on my conscience if you lose your New York apartment. It’s rent-controlled.”
“Don’t worry.” I diverted my attention to my cookie dough ice cream to avoid eye contact. “I’ll figure something out.”
“And you need to start reconnecting with people too.” Mom was on a roll, poking me with her elbow. “I know how much you missed Dylan. I’m not sure what happened between you two, honey, but what you had is sure worth fixing.”
“I tried.” Along the years, I had. I’d sent letters. Text messages. Birthday presents. Telepathic pleas. I’d have tried smoke signals if I didn’t know she was borderline asthmatic. She had never replied to any of them.
“Try harder.”
“Do you want me to stalk her?” I stabbed the spoon into my ice cream, losing my appetite.
“Aggressively court her,” Mom corrected. “Your generation is so touchy about personal space.”
“Mamushka.” I felt my nostrils flare. “I don’t think she wants anything to do with me. I’d hate to be a pest.” But I wasn’t so sure, after Dylan’s behavior last I saw her. Then again, it was literally my father’s funeral. Maybe she cut me some slack because it was a special occasion.
“A good friend is a treasure, and treasures are hard to come by.”
“Then why did she give up her treasure?” Though, really, I ought to try one last time. My out of control anxiety aside, Dylan wasn’t horrible to me at the funeral.
Mom twitched her mouth back and forth, pondering the question. “I’m thinking maybe you did something that made Dylan think you weren’t her treasure anymore. Is it possible you hurt her, so she decided to hurt you back?”
She was right, of course. I was the one who’d betrayed Dylan. I was the one who needed to atone for my sin.
I thought about what Mom said when I went to bed in my childhood room later that night. Darkness clasped me like loving arms. It was like being cocooned in a time machine. My obsession with the nineties was a result of acute longing for a time I hadn’t been here to witness. A time without social media. Before the internet took off. It represented anonymity and serenity to me. Two things I cherished more than anything.
And this room? This room almost made me believe I was right there, in the nineties. The faded purple walls. Beverly Hills 90210 and Green Day posters. Heavy quilts piled up on my single bed. Polaroid pictures of Dylan and me were pinned onto a detective board, strung together by red string.
Dylan and me roller-skating.
Dylan and me in a snowball fight.
Dylan and me at prom (as each other’s dates, obviously).
Dylan and me at a Death Cab for Cutie concert.
Dylan and me doing cartwheels in the sun.
Almost every happy memory I had was attached to Dylan Casablancas. And she was now going to be a mother. Mom had a point. Patching things up wasn’t just about Dylan being there for me—I wanted to be there for her too.
I stewed in memories and regrets for a few hours, wide-awake and tormented by all the time lost, before flinging my blanket off and padding barefoot to my closet. The clock signaled that it was two thirty in the morning.
“Shut up, clock,” I muttered as I tossed my closet doors open and rose on my toes to reach the tallest shelf, where a Dr. Martens shoebox decorated in plastic rhinestones and doodles rested.
The Shoebox of Dreams.
The box where Dylan and I threw little Post-it Notes with our bucket-list items. Our hopes. Our birthday wishes. Walking back to bed, I sat crisscross on the duvet, flicked on my phone’s flashlight, removed the lid, and picked up one of the heart-shaped folded notes.