“You did so good,” he says softly. “I’m glad you’re all right. Now go get some rest…and take care of that voice. We might need it.”
24
Jordan has a bag of spare clothes in her car, for when she gets her outfits dirty during video shoots. We scrunch into her back seat and change into them, then scuttle into a gas station bathroom to rinse the blood from our faces and arms—and legs, in my case.
It’s the same gas station we always seem to stop at, the one where Myrtle works. And when I come out of the bathroom and walk up to the counter to buy some chocolate—much deserved after the night I’ve had—there she is.
Her hair still has that crimped curl to it, but she’s not wearing her usual lip gloss or eyeshadow. And she looks so tired.
I almost run back outside to Jordan’s car, but Myrtle’s bone-weary expression draws me in. I’m not afraid of her, not here. I knew Jay couldn’t keep her in the hospital for long. The goal wasn’t to lock her away, after all, but to get her some help.
Maybe seeing my face is less than helpful, but it’s too late now. She has noticed me.
Slowly I approach the counter and lay down the candy bar. “Hey, Myrtle.”
She narrows her eyes. “What happened to your voice?”
“Um, laryngitis. Not contagious.”
“Hmm. Will that be all?”
“Actually…” I glance around to make sure no other customers are within earshot. “I was wondering… I wanted to know if you’re okay.”
“Okay?” She chuckles grimly. “Let’s see, my ex convinced me to kill someone, so I shot your boyfriend through the heart and he didn’t die, and then my ex came and smacked that information out of me. Oh, and my brother’s still dead. So there’s that.” She glares as she rings up the candy bar. “Will that be all?”
“You’re talking to someone, right?” I fish in my bag for my credit card. “Like, a therapist?”
“Yeah.” She sucks in her cheeks, like it’s a sour truth. “Gatsby is paying for it. He sent a bunch of money to my account, too, like he thinks he can pay for what happened to George. Or like he’s trying to shut me up.”
“If he wanted to shut you up, he’d go about it differently,” I tell her. “And what happened to George wasn’t his fault. I hope you’ll see that eventually. Jay really is trying to be nice to you. Sometimes he’s too generous—or generous at the wrong moments—but it comes from a good place.”
“I guess he does seem nice,” she admits. “He came to see me in the hospital.”
I didn’t know that. But it sounds like something he would do.
“Maybe I was wrong about him,” Myrtle says. “I still hate you, though.”
“Feel free.” I tuck my card back into my purse and grab the candy bar. “Just do yourself a favor and stay clear of Tom. He’s bad news. Twists you up inside until you’re not sure who you are anymore. And it hurts.”
Myrtle holds my gaze. We’ll probably never be friends, but we have one thing in common—we are both survivors, hopefully wiser for the pain.
“Take care, Daisy.” She points to a bit of dried blood on my thumb. “You missed a spot.”
“Shit. Thanks.”
I hurry back to the bathroom to wash my thumb, then I run out to the car.
“You took a while,” Jordan comments as I swing in and shut the door.
“I was talking to Myrtle.”
Her eyes widen. “No way.”
“Yup.” I lean back against the headrest. “And now, I’m done for the day.”
“You need something to help you sleep tonight?”
“I’ll be fine. Mom’s got wine in the fridge if I really need to knock myself out.”
“Don’t give yourself a hangover, though. You never know when Jay might need us tomorrow.”
“I don’t do hangovers.” I yawn until it feels like my cheeks will split. “Any idea what the party theme is for tomorrow night? You always seem to know that stuff.”
“Jay posts it on his party Instagram. He puts pictures on there too, like the ones from the Met Gala night.”
“Seriously?” My hand dives into my bag and comes out with my phone. “What’s the handle?”
She tells me, and I do a quick search. The account has rows and rows of gorgeous images and suggests several hashtags people can use to tag their own photos from Jay’s parties. Right at the top is a post with a stock photo of a regal, dark-haired woman in a fur-trimmed robe, wearing a crown. The theme is Royals, the caption reads. Put your own spin on it. We’ll take everything from Lorde to Game of Thrones.
“I don’t think I have anything to wear,” I groan.
“Really, Daisy? That’s your big concern?” Jordan side-eyes me.
“No, no it’s not. I just… I fixate on small things when I’m worried. Sorry, that sounded super shallow, especially after people died tonight. Ugh, I’m the worst.”
Jordan sighs. “No, it’s fine. I get it. It’s hard to take it all in. At least, that’s how I felt after the thing with George. I didn’t really feel sad, you know? Just kind of distantly sorry. He was someone I didn’t really know. But the people being threatened now—these are my people, other vampires, and they’re being massacred by someone who doesn’t think they should have a choice about their own mortality, their own bodies.”
Her words hover in my mind even after she drops me off. Sometimes the world feels so exhausting, so full of pain, like a great chorus of agonized souls all crying together, and I can’t stop it, and if I try to feel it all, I’ll crumble into nothing. But shutting it all out isn’t the answer either.
