Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“I think Mr. Rawlings thinks I can unlock them.”
She smiles. “I’m sure he does.”
“I’ll change for Pilates,” I say while standing.
“Did you let her go?”
“If I say yes, are you going to lecture me?”
She shakes her head.
I walk toward the door. “Why?” I ask.
“Because it’s not my job to open your doors.”
After Pilates, Callie has me take her to the Minneapolis Institute of Art, but I suspect the trip is more for me than her. She chooses certain sculptures and paintings to stand in front of for a long time—fifteen to twenty minutes—before moving to the next piece.
“Nope,” she says each time I attempt to reach for my phone.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for a decrease in pay. This is torture.
The next day, it’s not raining, so we spend the afternoon at the Walker Art Center. I’ve been through the Sculpture Garden next to it, but I’ve never seen the inside of the building.
That night, Rupert steps into the garage as I sit in his Chevelle, watching YouTube videos.
“I’ll rent you a room for three hundred a month, but you have to clean it and the bathroom you choose to use.”
“The car is fine.” I shrug.
“I don’t want you drooling on my leather seats or jerking off to porn.” He nods to my phone.
“Either your cameras suck or you need glasses.” I hold up my phone for him to see the screen. “They’re videos of rebuilding engines.”
“Well, either way, you don’t need to sleep in my car. It’s worth more than the bed I’m offering you. But if you want to keep sleeping in it, I’m going to charge you a grand a month.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That’s stupid.”
He turns, heading back into the house. “Life is stupid. Get used to it.”
I choose the cheaper option.
My days are spent as Minneapolis’s premier muse, exploring every museum and performing tasks like reorganizing Callie’s albums. I’m pretty sure she just wants me to see her collection of June’s music. At night, I sleep in a king bed and stare at naked angels on the ceiling. On the weekends, I take a side gig delivering food.
It’s been three weeks since I last saw June, and I fucking miss her. Instead of calling or texting, I drive past her apartment building a dozen times a day. I happen to catch a few glimpses of her roommate coming and going, but never June. The MINI Cooper is parked in a reserved lot on the north side of a building, but it’s always there and in the same spot.
Why doesn’t she get her license? Oh, that’s right. Rich people don’t need to drive. Yeah, I’m still pissed.
On a hot Saturday morning in late July, I get the nerve to buzz her apartment.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ally. It’s Flynn.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Hello?” I say.
“June isn’t here.”
“Oh, okay. Is she working?”
“She went home last week for a family emergency.”
“Oh, is everything alright?”
“I’m not comfortable discussing this with you. Sorry.”
“That’s … fine. Thanks anyway.” I deflate, walking back to my car.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
June
Immunotherapy.
Targeted therapy.
Surgery.
Radiation.
Chemotherapy.
Grandma Juni rolls her eyes at the oncologist while my parents and I sit with her in the conference room with a team of doctors.
“It’s a mole,” she says about her stage-four melanoma, which has spread to distant lymph nodes.
“Mom …” my mom says, and she has never called Grandma Juni “Mom.” It’s always been “Juni” because they’ve been best friends more than mother and daughter.
“I’ll start wearing a hat and more sunscreen,” Grandma says, fiddling with the gold rings on her long fingers, including the eight-carat canary diamond she’s never taken off her left ring finger since Grandpa Zach died five years ago from a heart attack.
“Juniper, that’s a great idea,” the oncologist says. “But that’s not going to help the damage that’s already been done. We need to be aggressive with treatment because you have an aggressive form of melanoma.”
Grandma straightens her back, just as confident and beautiful as ever. “Did you know my granddaughter is a famous cellist? And she’s going back on tour.”
“Juni,” Mom says.
I bow my head. Grandma is simultaneously sure she’s dying and also in denial. And her “dying wish” is for me to push past my fears and “get back on the horse.” A term she used to get my dad on her side. He likes me either on a horse or with a cello between my legs.
My phone vibrates, and I carefully unzip the bag on my lap beneath the table, sliding it open just enough to see the screen.
Flynn: Hi
I slip the phone back into my bag and clear my throat. “I’ll play.”
My parents eye me with uncertainty while Grandma pulls me in for a hug.
“Just once,” I say. “Something with the LA Philharmonic. Just me. Not the band. But you agree to treatment.”
Her smile fades. “I’ll do a month’s worth of treatment for one show.”