Pretty Pink Ribbons (4 page)

Her brows dip low and her lips thin into a tight line. “Have you been lying to me?” I’m not really sure if she’s asking, since the look on her face tells me that she already knows the answer.

“I haven’t lied . . . exactly.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I absolutely hate that we are having this conversation, mostly because I know she’s right. I haven’t been living in poverty, but it’s been pretty darn close. I needed to save up enough to pay the ungodly amount of money that I’m about to spend when I get to St. Louis, and that’s not taking into consideration the heap of bills I owe that stupid-ass hospital in California.

It wasn’t by choice, but I needed the extra money and every penny counts. Who cares if I’ve substituted fresh fruits and vegetables for canned soup and ramen noodles? Who cares that I haven’t taken a single pain pill in order to save a couple hundred bucks? So yes, I’ve cut corners to save money, but look at me. I’m healthy—
well, sort of
—clothed and I’ve had a roof over my head. “Laney Renee, please tell me that you’ve been eating and taking care of yourself, because I’m not sure I can handle it if you haven’t.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I promise you that it’s not as bad you’re probably thinking.” She rolls her eyes. “Would you just trust me? I’m fine, I promise.”
I’m going straight to hell for that lie.
“And look, cutting corners is going to help out in the long run. I’ll be able to pay off some bills and I can start my treatments as soon as I get to town.”

A slender hand slides down the front of her face at the same time she releases a long, slow breath. “Sure, it’ll help out in the long run, but now I feel guilty wondering what in the hell you’ve been doing to be able to put away that much money.” She looks down. I wouldn’t dare tell her about all of the other things I’ve done to save a couple of pennies—that might throw her into a complete tailspin. Mia doesn’t need to know that milk, juice and meat were not staples on my grocery list, or that I cancelled my cable and internet several months ago. It’s not surprising that she didn’t know since most of our time together was spent at her posh condo, especially during my recovery. The few times that she did come over to my place, she always brought a movie so it was never questioned.

Although I was able to hide a lot from her, she still knew that I had a pile of medical bills that were eating away at me. Mia has offered to pay off my hospital bill several times, but I can’t take her money, mostly because I know that I’ll never be able to pay her back. Sure, I have COBRA health insurance that I’m paying out the wazoo for, but it’s shitty at best. I’m not naïve; this debt will most likely stay with me until the day I die.

Resting my hand on her leg, I squeeze it lightly and her sad eyes find mine. “I’m going to fight, Mia. I’m going to put up the biggest fight of my life, and I promise you that I’ll try my hardest to beat this.” She nods once, grabs me around the shoulders and tugs me toward her. I’m not sure how long we sit there on the side of the interstate, but it doesn’t really matter because if there is one thing that I’ve learned over the past several months, it’s that moments like this need to be treasured.

“THAT’S IT?” DISAPPOINTMENT SEEPS through Mia’s voice as she twists her head, stretching her neck to try and get a full view out the window.

“That’s it.”

From the corner of my eye, I see her slump back in her seat. “I’m not impressed. It’s just a big metal—”

“—arch.” There’s no need for me to look; I have the damn thing and everything surrounding it memorized. It may just be an arch, but it symbolizes a time in my life when things were different . . . easier. The first boy to steal my heart—the man who still owns it—kissed me for the first time under the Gateway Arch, and many times after that as well. Our evenings were often spent walking around the grounds beneath the monument, sitting on the banks and watching the barges drift carelessly down the Mississippi River. We spent those nights making out under the stars, dreaming and talking about the future . . . a future that
I
robbed us of.

“Yes, an arch. But why an arch? Why not a triangle or a circle?” I blink, smiling softly, thankful that Mia pulled me from my thoughts before my memories took me down a path I wasn’t ready to travel. Don’t get me wrong, I’m totally going down that road, just not right now. Not today.

“Google it.” I shrug, rolling the window down so I can stick out my arm and feel the warm air whip it around. I twirl my hand, letting it float through the air like I did when I was a kid. “
You’re gonna get that arm ripped off,”
my mom would scold from the front seat. But of course, I didn’t care then and I don’t care now. I rest my head back on the seat, my arm dangling from the window as I weave Ivy in and out of traffic. The people of St. Louis think their traffic is bad, but this is nothing compared to some of the jams I ended up in while living in California.

“Is that your answer to everything,
Google it?
” I glance at Mia, laughing when I see her pull out her phone.

“You’re googling it, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Okay,” I reply in mock agreement, throwing my head back in laughter seconds later when she starts rattling off facts about the St. Louis Arch.

“It was a competition. People were competing to design a monument . . . obviously, the Arch won,” she says dryly, pausing to read more. I shake my head in amusement at how engrossed she is in this. “It’s six hundred and thirty feet tall and . . . OH MY GOD—” She slaps me on the arm and I glance between her and the road several times because there is no way in hell I want to miss my exit . . . and because I should probably drive with my eyes on the road. “We can go up
in
the Arch!”

“Um, no.”

She scoffs. “Why not?” I will not look at her. I won’t do it. She has these big huge puppy dog eyes and they get me every damn time. “Fine. Then we should at least put it on our bucket lists.” I barely have time to register what she says before whipping my head in her direction. Her eyes are wide with regret, hand covering her mouth. She slowly shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. Please, don’t listen to me. I’m a total bitch and I suck as a friend and I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” Words keep falling from her lips, and only when my tires hit the rumble strips on the side of the interstate do I look up in time to slam on the brakes, mere seconds before barreling into the back of another car. My fingers are clenched around the steering wheel, my heart beating wildly in my chest as my breathing comes out in labored pants. It could be because of the fifty-car pileup I nearly caused, but more likely because Mia is right.

I haven’t lived my life. I take that back, I’ve lived it—safely—but have I really enjoyed it? I’m not so sure. I’ve always been a careful person, never one to step out of the box or take chances. I didn’t drink before my twenty-first birthday, didn’t cliff dive into the quarry on graduation day, and skinny dipping in the river with my friends was a big fat no-no. My fear of getting caught, getting in trouble, or worse yet, getting arrested, kept me from doing a lot of things. And looking back, I wish I had those memories. Memories of fun times, being a foolish teenager and breaking rules. Memories that I could call on when the reality of my life gets to be too much and I need an escape.

Tomorrow is not promised—to anyone—and I think it’s time I start living what life I have left to its fullest potential. At the end of the day, when everything is said and done, I don’t want to look back on my life with regrets. I want to be happy knowing that I took chances, went on adventures and tried new things. Moving back home doesn’t have to just be about making amends with
him,
it can be a fresh start . . . a chance for me to start living. I can do things that I never would have dreamt of doing. My heart rate kicks up a few notches, a burst of warmth slowly spreading through my body at the thought of doing something wild and crazy, and I can feel my lips start to lift.

My mind starts racing with ideas. Things I can do . . . things that—surprisingly—I
want
to do. Skydiving. Bungee jumping. Skinny dipping. Cliff diving. Get a tattoo. Seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? My life is already hanging in the balance, and who knows, maybe this will be good for me. Spice things up a little bit—have some fun. Go out with a bang, so to speak. My fingers itch to pull the car over and start making a list, but instead I reach across the console and squeeze Mia’s leg.

“You’re right,” I whisper, my eyes trained on the car in front of me. “Let’s make a list.”

“Laney?”

“It’s fine. Really.” And I am fine, because I need this. I need to know that I’m still alive, and what better way than giving myself one hell of an adrenaline rush? She grips my hand in hers, but I refuse to take my eyes off the road because I know that if I look at her, I’ll lose it. I’ll start bawling like a damn baby, and right now I don’t want to cry. I want to be excited about this new adventure that I’m going to take myself on.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“I know. It’s okay, really. I promise I’m not mad.” I glance in her direction, and I can tell by her guilt-ridden eyes that she doesn’t believe me. “Mia, this will be good for me. I think making a bucket list is a great idea.” A couple of tears drip past her lashes and trickle down her face but I blink hard, focusing my attention back on the road. There is no sense in getting upset. This is my reality. Mia squeezes my hand a little tighter before I pull it from her grasp.

Thankfully, traffic has started moving and when I see the sign for my exit, I signal right and follow the ramp. Weaving through the city, I listen contentedly as Mia points out different shops and restaurants as we pass them, and each time she names something familiar it makes me realize how homesick I’ve really been.

I turn left down a one-way street, hoping that Mia doesn’t catch on to the change in scenery. “Um . . . Lane?” Dang it. I knew she’d notice. I had no doubt she would’ve said something as soon as we pulled up in front of the line of houses, but I was hoping to put this argument off for a few more minutes.

“Yeah?” I ask absently, pretending that I’m concentrating on where I’m going.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“Language,” I scold.

Mia clutches her purse to her body. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her chewing on the inside of her mouth and I feel sort of bad for not being completely truthful with her about my living arrangements. “Seriously, Lane, turn around. This place doesn’t seem very safe.”

Mia was raised in a gated community with a silver spoon in her mouth, so the sight of run-down buildings and not-so-clean people walking the streets is freaking her the hell out. I’m not going to lie, I’m a little freaked out myself, but this doesn’t affect me quite as much as her because I was raised in a similar neighborhood. After my mom passed away, my dad ended up in foreclosure on my childhood home. Money was tight and we ended up in the ‘bad’ part of town, where drug dealers were arrested on a daily basis and the sound of gunshots would often wake me up at night. I have absolutely no idea how Luke and I made it out alive, but we did. You learn quickly how to survive. You keep your head down, don’t talk to anyone unless you have to, and when it’s absolutely necessary, you suck up . . . to the right people.

My ‘suck up’ was in the form of food for protection. There was a young man, Benny, who lived in the apartment next to ours. His mom was a junkie and oftentimes he would go days without eating. Benny was an attractive boy of Latino descent. He was tall and strong with a hard face that most people found intimidating, despite his young age.

Once, Luke and I were being pushed around by some older kids at the bus stop and Benny stepped in to save us. That night I sat outside of my apartment with a container of ramen noodles and waited for him to come out of his home. Two hours later he finally came out, and it was there, on a shredded welcome mat between two apartment doors, that I first offered Benny food in exchange for protection.

“Don’t worry, Mia. I’ve got it covered.” I pull over in front of a small brick shotgun house and double-check the number on the mailbox with the number I have written down. “This is it.” Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I reach in the center console and grab my can of Mace, shaking it several times to make sure it’s still full.