99 Days(57)

I don’t know how long it goes on for—it feels like hours, like time’s bent backward on itself, but in reality it’s probably less than a minute or two before Patrick pulls away from me fast and all at once, leaves me gasping. “We gotta get back,” he says quietly, reaching up and wiping his hand across his mouth. “You ready?”

“I—” I’m breathing so hard I don’t know if I can stand fully upright. I have no idea what just happened here—what I just let happen here. “Seriously?”

Patrick looks at me for a moment, unreadable. “Come on,” is all he says, tipping his head in the direction of the party. I can hear the high, tickled trill of Imogen’s laugh. I close my eyes and count to ten, try to collect myself. When I open them again Patrick’s gone.





Day 64


The house is quiet when I come downstairs for a snack, but there’s my mom, watching Tootsie on the couch with our old blue quilt piled over her, a bowl of garlic-Parmesan popcorn in a ceramic bowl in her lap. I haven’t thought about that popcorn in a full year, but my mouth waters at the smell of it—it’s a Diana Barlow specialty, one of my favorite foods from when I was little. She used to let me eat it for dinner sometimes, for a treat.

I stall out in the doorway for a minute, watching as Dustin Hoffman wobbles around on-screen in a pair of high heels, not wanting to talk to her but not really wanting to go back upstairs, either. I don’t even think she’s noticed me standing there until she holds the bowl out in my direction.

“You want to come and have some popcorn?” she asks me, sharp eyes still trained on the TV. “Or you want to just stand there and lurk?”

I open my mouth to tell her I was planning on lurking, then shut it again just as fast. Suddenly, I am so, so tired. My mouth feels like it’s burning from the kiss Patrick branded there. My chest aches like my legs after yesterday’s run.

“Popcorn could be good,” I admit finally, shuffling into the living room, the knotty floors creaking noisily under my feet. My mom nods her curly blond head without comment. I perch on the edge of the slouchy leather couch, trying without a ton of success not to get swallowed by the cushions. When she offers me the blanket, I take that, too. The TV chatters quietly. I breathe.





Day 65


“—and she realizes, as the door locks behind her, that she just left a bag of poop on the kitchen counter.”

Imogen, Gabe, and I stare at Jay for a moment before bursting into laughter so loud and so horrified that people clear across Bunchie’s turn to look at us. “That’s an urban legend!” I protest through my giggles, half-afraid I’m going to snort my milk shake right out my nose. “That’s an urban legend, uh-uh, I’m Googling it. No way.”

“Go ahead and Google it,” Jay says magnanimously, picking the last couple of fries off his plate and nodding. “It happened to my cousin’s friend.”

“Uh-huh.” I reach over, snag one of Imogen’s pickles. “I . . . think you are full of garbage, but that’s also pretty much the best story I’ve ever heard, so . . .”

Gabe slings his arm over the back of the booth, the inside of his elbow brushing my hair. “Molly’s a skeptic,” he says.

“I am a skeptic!” I agree, but in truth at the moment I’m a happy one—if you’d told me at the start of the summer if I could have something like this, a normal night out with my boyfriend and my friends, I would have asked you what exactly you were smoking and where I could get some, too.

Or, okay—not normal, exactly. I try to ignore the sick pit in my stomach every time I remember what happened with Patrick the other night. I think of the slickness of Patrick’s warm skin under my fingertips. I think of the clutch of my legs around his waist. I feel like a horror show, I feel like exactly the kind of nightmare Julia thinks I am—tearing through the Donnellys again and again like some kind of natural disaster, a tornado that changed course halfway through and came back for more.

But other than that? Totally normal.

We’re debating whether or not to get a round of potato skins for dessert when the door to Bunchie’s opens and Patrick and Tess walk in. I feel a quick, violent sandstorm kick up inside my chest—Imogen asked earlier if it was cool to text Tess and tell her where we were and I made a big show of acting cool about it, but after what happened between Patrick and me the other night I told myself there was no way he’d have the balls to tag along.

I must look visibly rattled, because Imogen glances at me quizzically for one sharp second before she recovers, rearranging her features into a wide, friendly smile. “Hi, kids!” she calls gaily. “You just missed Jay’s great story about a girl taking a crap on her one-night stand’s kitchen counter. Here, come sit.”

“She didn’t take the crap on the counter,” Jay protests as we all shift around to make room. Tess slides into the booth next to Imogen, leaving Patrick no place to sit except next to me—once he’s there I’m literally sandwiched in between him and his brother, one warm Donnelly on either side of me and quarters so tight I can hardly move my arms. My whole body goes rigid, some small furry animal that senses a predator. Patrick doesn’t look at me once. I try not to think of his mouth on mine, the rough scrape of tree bark against my naked back. When I reach for my water glass, I’m so flustered I knock a dirty fork right into his lap.