In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Samara: Come over. I'm making popcorn and watching Dance Moms.
Reagan: Can't, I have to finish something for class.
Samara: Boo, you whore.
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I'VE UNLOADED THE DISHWASHER, cleared the counters, vacuumed the kitchen, taken out the trash, and cleaned out the refrigerator, and I feel good. I feel accomplished. But then I look over to the balcony where my portrait lays half finished on an easel, and those exercise-induced feel-good endorphins I got from cleaning the kitchen spotless and using the stairs instead of the elevator to take down the trash disappear like pixie dust through my fingers.
Fuck.
I was supposed to be sitting my ass down and painting a portrait from my interpretation of the old saying (Easy come, easy go) for Professor Matthew's art class, but instead, I got caught up in multiple little tasks for the past..... I look at the clock on the microwave; fifty minutes.
Fucking fuckity fuck.
This is what happens when I forget to take my Ritalin. After sketching out the image of a girl watching her hand slowly change from young to old, her face a perfect image of horror. I realized that my throat felt like sandpaper and that I had no idea when last I had a glass of water. Honestly, it could have been two days ago or within the last hour. There are no two ways about it. Putting the empty glass in the dishwasher made me realize that it needed unloading, and it all went downhill from there.
The soft noises coming from the television filter through the white noise in my head, and my face burns when I realize that Paris has been sitting on the sofa the entire time I've been fluttering around the apartment like The Energizer Bunny on crack. And as if there's this invisible thread between us, he lifts his head and looks at me, and for a brief moment, we're stuck. It's been like this for the past week of us living together, fugitive glances, fleeting looks, our eyes catching-lingering.
My breath leaves me a little unsteady, while his is slow and even. He tilts his head as he regards me, and helplessly, my eyes fall to the visible tattoos on his neck. To the entwining violets peeking out from just below his throat that I keep catching myself looking at.
“Reagan?” my eyes snap up, embarrassment making my face burn the colour of a stop sign.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you were about done in there?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure,” I answer, dropping the dishcloth in my hands and hurrying back over to the balcony to finish my portrait.
The smell of something baking has me dropping my paintbrush and walking to the kitchen like a zombie a few minutes later. Only the equivalent of a tasty brain is Paris's insanely good cooking. I mean, the man can cook. I don't think I've ever eaten as well as I have since he moved in.
