Page 8 of Darling Venom
When?
Why did I ask that? I sounded like an insurance inspector.
“Just before Christmas.”
Thinking back, I’d noticed she wasn’t at school before and after Christmas.
Sure, I bet kids talked about it.
But seeing as I was a little less popular than a lone, used tampon in the girls’ restroom, I wasn’t in any danger of being on the receiving end of gossip.
Truth be told, I’d become so invisible, people bumped into me by accident.
“Sorry,” I grumbled, feeling lame. It made me resent her. I wasn’t supposed to feel lame tonight. “I don’t really know what else to say.”
“Sorry’s fine. What pisses me off is when people hear about it and say I’m lucky I survived. Yay, lucky me, orphaned at thirteen. Pop the champagne.”
I made a popping sound, drank straight from the imaginary bottle, then held my neck, pretending to choke on it.
She offered a tired smile.
“I could’ve gone upstate to live with my uncle, but St. Paul is too good an opportunity to pass up.” She grabbed the beer from my hand, and our fingers touched. She took another sip and handed the can back to me. “So, why are you here?”
“Why are you here?”
She winked. “Ladies first.”
Charlotte Richards had jokes.
Damn, she was cool up close, too.
“I needed to think.”
“Hashtag lies.” She let out a humorless snort. “I saw you leaning over the edge. You’re here for the same reason I am.”
“Which is?”
“To end it all,” she declared dramatically, slapping the back of her hand to her forehead.
She lost her balance, lurching forward. I shot my arm out to stop her from falling. She clutched it with a yelp, unlike someone intent on ending her life.
I was kind-of, sort-of cupping her boob now.
I REPEAT: I’M KIND-OF, SORT-OF CUPPING CHARLOTTE RICHARDS’ BOOB.
I pulled away frantically, but she snatched my hand, tearing into my skin, and it was awkward, and there was a ninety-nine percent chance I had a semi, and Jesus Christ, why hadn’t I jumped minutes ago when my pride was still intact?
Her heartbeat thrust against my palm. She loosened her grip on me, and I withdrew, snapping my gaze back to the Hudson.
My jaw was so tense it hurt.
“Wanna die, my ass,” I muttered. She’d almost shit herself a second ago. “That’s cool. Not your fault. Statistically, you’re now less likely to want to off yourself.”
This was my area of expertise.
I had straight-up mad knowledge when it came to suicide. I’d done my homework. Which was ironic, considering I never did my actual homework.
I knew, for instance, that people were most likely to kill themselves between the ages of forty-five and fifty-four.
