Page 279 of Darling Venom
One year since I met Tate Marchetti.
February fourteenth was a day of firsts.
Just not today.
I told myself it didn’t matter that Leah had forgotten my birthday.
After all, I’d spent the past ten of them without a single congratulation from her.
Plus, to be fair, things were hectic with her recent success. She posted a tutorial on YouTube for scar makeup, which ended up racking up more views than that dancing dog compilation.
I found myself on the subway, riding the path from Kellan’s cemetery to a familiar station. The cabin rocked me. I swayed, deciding not to resist the waves.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Leah: I promise you I did NOT forget about your birthday. Jonah and I drove all the way to Jersey to get you your favorite menemen, and some asshole decided to rear-end us.
Me: Are you okay?
Leah: Yes, but pissed. Jonah says he can fix it easy. Still…
Leah: [Rob Lowe Screaming in a Desert GIF]
Me: Don’t worry about it. Can’t wait to eat the menemen tonight! Thank you.
I slid my phone into my pocket, mood lifted.
Leah and I were officially back to normal. It felt right. As if no time had passed. Which scared me, in a good way, because while it meant I had something to lose again, it also meant I had something to fight for.
The subway doors whooshed open, flashing a peek of one of Kellan’s many MTA billboards. Helen had set up an early release in three major retailers to ramp up buzz, but Darling Venom ended up selling out before midnight yesterday.
Which meant, this morning, the official day of release, there were no physical books to sell. Helen ordered another print—four-hundred thousand copies. Meanwhile, indie bookstores flooded with customers.
Kellan would have loved it.
By the time I reached St. Paul’s, I wore a smile on my face. The same chain-link dangled from two hooks, barring entrance to the rooftop stairs. I shimmied under it, climbing the steps with less dread than I’d expected.
Maybe because I’d come for a good reason.
To celebrate Kel’s release with him.
Just like that day nine years ago, I saw something I didn’t expect to see.
A person.
He sat close to the ledge, his legs dangling over the rafters.
“Tate,” I whispered, not expecting him to hear it.
I must’ve been seeing things, because I could’ve sworn I also saw Tate the other day, near Galileo Playground.
And again at an advance reading of Darling Venom.
My imagination tended to run wild. I often googled Tate Marchetti, knowing I’d find nothing.
I couldn’t bring myself to visit him, because if I did, I’d break, and if I broke, I’d let him piece me back together, and if he pieced me back together, I’d stay. And if I stayed and he didn’t relinquish his carefully crafted control, the cycle would begin again.
I decided not to risk it on the off-chance this wasn’t a mirage.
