First Draft Romance

CHAPTER NINE

Gina leaves without saying a word, overstuffed duffel bag in tow.

I don't particularly enjoy my Mental Health Everything Shower™.

I still steal her rich people body butter. It's not as gratifying as I'd expected it to be.

I shuffle to bed straight from the shower, barely managing the energy to yank a faded pair of granny panties up my legs and pull a tattered band shirt over my head. My hair, still sopping wet and slightly longer because of it, clings to the base of my neck. It seeps into the collar of my shirt, turning the fabric cold. My arms wrap around a pillow in an almost solemn manner, bringing it tight against my chest, pressing my cheek into the pillowcase.

It's Gina's pillow—she was always particular about what kind of pillow she slept on. It's also the only one with a silk case. She'd decided early on that she no longer cared about design symmetry—she'd buy her things, and I could buy mine, if I wanted. I "didn't appreciate" nice things like silk pillowcases, which, yeah, I guess was fair.

As a result, pretty much all the decorations in this apartment belong to her. All the prints hung on the walls, the mattress, the side tables—all Gina. Even the smell: Gina. That floral scent is all over her pillowcase, and I wonder when she started wearing this scent instead of her old signature.

The only thing that's mine in this whole apartment is the little IKEA cube shelf tucked in the corner, packed full of all my books.

I roll to my other side, away from the middle of the bed, and stare at the shelf. Gina would complain sometimes about how messy it was. There are six cubes, which wouldn't be an issue if I wasn't a book person. Each cube is packed full of as many books as possible—we're talking two layers of books, stacked strategically to give me the most space possible to jam more books horizontally atop the row of tightly-packed vertical books. And even that isn't enough room. There are a few small piles of books on top of the shelf, next to some crystals our friend Kirby has given me over the course of years of birthdays.

It's one of the stacks on top that I can't tear my gaze away from. Roz's books. I've got a nice shelf (top right) of collector's editions of her books, but the stack on top are all first editions I bought, starting off with the hardcover All Hail Mary that I pre-ordered when I was a kid. The book jacket is ripped and taped back together with Scotch tape; the book's spine is nearly completely detached. The pages are filled with annotations scribbled in blue pen—annotations I made when I was a high school sophomore, because I loved Roz's writing too much to not.

I wanted to tear apart each paragraph to figure out how Roz put it together in the first place, wanted to trace my fingers along the page and figure out exactly how she made each sentence breathe. I'd never come across a book that felt so alive before.

It was a book that had a different conversation with you each time you picked it up. Held a new secret every time you cracked it open. Told a slightly different story on each reread. I used to carry it with me to all my classes, picking it up and examining it at every opportunity. I carried it with me in college, too, even when I had other books to read in my bag.

This book is my everything.

I don't know where I find the effort to drag myself out of bed. My head is fuzzy, my vision blurry, but when I pick up my worn copy of All Hail Mary, it's like the smog in my brain clears. When I close my eyes, I can almost imagine Roz's perfume instead of Gina's.

I'm pulling the covers up to my chest, tucking Gina's pillow behind me to prop me up, and opening up the book to the dedication page. It falls open easily—and with a loud crack as the spine shifts—and I stare at the italicized words there: To all the girls who burn hot, burn fast, burn bright.