Darling Venom: A Broken Love Story Read online

  But not having my birthday acknowledged this year? That took the cake. Which was actually kind of punny when I thought about it.

  I climbed the stairs out of Cathedral Parkway. Arctic wind slapped my damp cheeks. The soundtrack of the Manhattan traffic, car horns, and drunk fuckboys filled my ears.

  I strode past corporate buildings, fancy apartment blocks, and historical monuments. Dad used to say I was born in the best city in the world.

  Only seemed fair that I’d die in it, too.

  Breaking off onto a side street, I arrived at my school.

  This was my first year at St. Paul, a K-12 college prep in the better part of town. I rode a full scholarship, something Principal Brooks had enjoyed shoving in my face until The Night Of happened and it suddenly became unkosher to be a dick to a kid whose parents just died.

  Basically, the scholarship rewarded me for being the best student in the mediocre elementary and middle schools outside this zip code.

  Some random-ass, couture-loving lady from the Upper East Side had agreed to pay my way through private school until I graduated, as part of some charity event.

  Last year, Mom had forced me to write her a thank-you letter.

  She never replied.

  I hadn’t been at St. Paul long enough to actively hate it, so that wasn’t why I’d chosen to off myself from its roof.

  But it was hard not to notice the railed stairway on the side of the six-floor Edwardian monster, leading to the rooftop.

  Such a convenient suicide venue, it’d be a crime to choose anywhere else.

  Apparently, the staff of St. Paul knew giving overstressed students access to the roof was not the brightest idea, but the stairway had to stay.

  Some health and safety BS.

  They’d put a chain around it, but you could climb over easily. Which I did, ascending the stairs in no hurry.

  Death could wait a few more minutes.

  I’d imagined it so many times, I could almost feel it.

  Static silence.

  Lights out.

  General numbness.

  Utter bliss.

  When I reached the top, on the last stair, I made a split-second decision and nicked the inside of my wrist over the rusty rails. Blood materialized on cue.

  Now I would die with a scar.

  My hands were clammy, and I was out of breath as I wiped the deep scarlet over my kilt. I stopped in my tracks when my feet hit the ink-colored shingles.

  The roof was slope-ridged. Three chimneys curled skyward, their mouths blackened with ash. New York stretched before me in its morbid glory.

  The Hudson. The parks, churches, skyscrapers partly covered by clouds.

  City lights danced across the dark horizon.

  This city had seen wars and plagues and fires and battles. My death wouldn’t even make it to the news, probably.

  I noticed something.

  Something I hadn’t expected to see here.

  Actually, it was a someone.

  Clad in a black hoodie and track pants, he sat on the edge of the roof, dangling his feet, his back to me.

  His shoulders hunched dejectedly, he peered down, ready to jump.

  He leaned forward, one inch eating the other.

  Slow.

  Determined.

  Steady.

  It was a knee-jerk reaction, the decision to stop him. Like flinching when someone threw something in your face.

  “Don’t!” I barked out.

  The figure froze.

  I didn’t dare to blink, too stressed he’d be gone when I opened my eyes.

  For the first time since The Night Of, I didn’t feel like a complete piece of shit.

  I bet they’ll ask why.

  Why did he do that?

  Why did he dress like a weirdo?

  Why would he fuck his brother over like that?

  Well, allow me to en-fucking-lighten you.

  I was doing it because Tate Marchetti was a sonuvabitch.

  Trust me, I lived with the guy.

  He’d torn me from my father and didn’t even stop to ask me what I wanted to do with my life.

  If I could die twice just to rub it in my big brother’s smug face, I happily would.

  Anyway, about my suicide.

  It wasn’t a rash decision.

  Suicide had built its case over the years. Then, last week, I’d jotted down pros and cons (cliché, I know—sue me).

  I couldn’t help but notice one part of the list fell short.

  pros:

  Tate is going to have a coronary.

  No more school.

  No more homework.

  No more getting my ass whipped by rando jocks who watch too much Euphoria.

  No more Harvard vs. Yale discussions during dinner (can’t get into either with my grades, even if Dad donates three wings, a hospital, and a kidney to these schools).

  Bonus points: dying young is rock n’ roll.

  cons:

  Will miss Dad.

  Will miss my books.

  Will miss Charlotte Richards—side note: I don’t even know her. So what if she’s pretty? WTF?

  I plucked a can of Bud Light from my backpack and chugged it down. It was foamy from the journey here, and my fingertips were freezing, and I should just get it over with.

  I was about to do just that when it caught my attention. The tap-tap-tap of feet coming up the stairs.

  What in the…?

  Tate didn’t know I was here, but if he’d found out by some miraculous chance, he worked a night shift Morgan-Dunn Hospital.

  Which left someone else from St. Puke who’d noticed the same hidden metal stairway. Probably a drunk couple sneaking in for a quick lay.

  I leaned forward to jump before they could see me when I heard, “Don’t!”

  I froze, not turning around.

  The voice was familiar, but I didn’t let myself hope, because if it was her, I was definitely hallucinating.

  Then there was silence.

  I wanted to jump.

  I hadn’t come this far only to come this far, so to speak.

  I hadn’t chickened out. But I was curious to know what she’d do next because…

  Well, because she’d just walked into a shit show.

  The person behind me spoke again.

  “Crass doesn’t sell hoodies. They’re anti-capitalism. Nice brain fart, dude.”

  Dafuq?

  My head bolted in her direction.

  It was her.

  Holy hell, it was Charlotte Richards in the flesh.

  With the thick chestnut bangs and big green eyes and emo anime attire. Which was basically American-porn attire. Kilts and AC/DC shirts and knee-high socks under Dr. Martens.

  She was not a popular kid, nor a hermit. But she had this air about her. I don’t know. She made me want to get to know her.

  Pacing toward me on uneven shingles, she shoved her fists into her jacket. “You made this hoodie yourself? That’s lame.”

  I pretended to ignore her, hurled the empty beer can into the dark jaw of the school’s backyard, and grabbed a fresh one from my backpack, cracking it open.

  It pissed me off that she’d called me out on my bullshit, even if I was crushing on her.

  People our age were too dumb to know British anarchist punk bands from the seventies don’t sell merch.

  But of course, I had to go and want the one chick who actually had brains.

  “Can I have one?” She plopped down next to me, hugging the chimney with an arm for security.

  I blinked at her.

  Nothing about this situation rang real to me.

  Her being here.

  Talking to me.

  Existing beside me.

  She must have known that I was a social pariah. Nobody spoke to me at school… or out of school, for that matter.

  And I didn’t mean that as a figure of speech.

  I wondered how much she knew about my circumstances. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t l ike I’d date her or even deal with her tomorrow morning.

  That’s the beauty of quitting life—you don’t have to hand in a notice.

  Hesitantly, I offered her the Bud Light.

  Charlotte released her death grip from the chimney and took a small sip.

  “God.” She poked her tongue out and passed it back, wrinkling her nose. “Tastes like feet.”

  I swallowed the rest of the lager, feeling an unjust sense of superiority. “I suggest you stop licking feet.”

  “And drinking beer, apparently.”

  “You get used to it. Nobody likes the taste of alcohol. Just the way it makes you feel.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You get drunk often?”

  The only light illuminating us came from nearby buildings.

  Charlotte freaking Richards, ladies and gents.

  Up close.

  So pretty I would smile if I could still feel anything past the numbness.

  “Often enough.”

  Translation: Way more than I freaking should at my age.

  “Do your parents know?”

  I pinned her with a what-the-fuck? look.

  I didn’t normally feel so easy with people, let alone those with boobs, but the beers had loosened me up. Plus, in my head, Charlotte and I had spoken to each other plenty.

  I popped a brow. “Do your parents know you’re getting hammered tonight?”

  “My parents are dead.”

  It came out flat. Monotone. Like she’d said it so many times, it no longer held weight.

  But she rendered me speechless for a moment.

  Sorry seemed too small a word. I didn’t know anyone our age with two dead parents.

  One dead parent—sure. Happens. My mom was six feet under.

  Two—that was some Oliver Twist shit.

  Charlotte Richards just out-tragedied me.

  “Oh.”

  Really, Kellan?

  Of all the fucking words available? Oh?

  “How?” I added, not that it reinstated my right to speak the English language.

  She rocked her leg, glancing around. “There was a fire in our house. Everything burned down.”

  “When?”

  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.

  I knew the most common suicide method was a firearm (fifty percent), and men were more likely to succeed in it.

  Most importantly, I knew pretty, smart Charlotte didn’t really want to kill herself. She was having a moment, not a year.

  I looked down at my future demise, then up again.

  I’d come here to die because I wanted everyone from school to see. To scar them the way they’d scarred me, leaving an ugly dent inside them that couldn’t be covered with makeup.

  Other than Charlotte herself, ironically.

  She hadn’t been nice to me per se, but she smiled when we passed each other and once picked up a pen I’d dropped.

  Her niceness was cruel. It gave me false hope, which was dangerous.

  Staring past the rafters, she tucked her hands beneath her thighs. “I’m serious about this. I just… I don’t know… Wanna die on my terms, I guess? I can’t bear living without my parents. Then, there’s my sister. Leah. She works full time at a bodega to keep a roof over our heads and dropped out of college to raise me. She hasn’t even realized it’s my birthday today.”

  “Happy Birthday,” I mumbled.

  “Thanks.” She inched forward on the sloped shingles as if testing the waters before leaning back. “I wish I had cancer. Or some other grand battle. Dementia, stroke, organ failure. If I lose those fights, I’m brave. But the thing I’m battling is my mind. And if I lose, they’ll just call me weak.”

  “It’s a good thing it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks once we’re dead.”

  “When did you figure out you wanted to…” She jerked her thumb across her neck, then rolled it sideways, playing dead.

  “After I realized I prefer my eyes closed than open.”

  “Meaning…?”

  “When I sleep, I dream. When I wake, the nightmare begins.”

  “What’s the nightmare?”

  When I didn’t answer immediately, she rolled her eyes and took something out of her pocket. She flicked it in my direction. I caught it.

  It was a penny.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” she offered.

  “Fifty bucks would be more lucrative.”

  “Life’s not about money.”

  “Uncle Sam begs to differ. Welcome to America, baby.”

  She laughed. “I’m broke.”

  “That’s the rumor,” I confirmed.

  I just wanted her to hate me like the rest of school, so she’d stop looking at me like I was fixable.

  “Whatever. Don’t change the subject. Why do you want to jump?”

  I decided to skip the social part of why I was here—the name-calling, the loneliness, the fights—and focus on what had thrown me over the edge tonight.

  “I see your orphan status and raise you a fucked-up family situation with a side of broken legacy. My dad is novelist Terrence Marchetti. You know, The Imperfections.”

  She couldn’t not know.

&n bsp; It’d released last month and already entered its third printing. Think Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas meets Trainspotting in a very dark alley.

  The New York Times had named The Imperfections the biggest book of the decade before it even came out.

  Three different adaptations in the works—film, television, and stage. Translated into fifty-two languages. Record for fastest-selling paperback in America.

  Word around town was, it’d win the National Book Award this year.

  I continued, trying to keep a monotone, “Mom was model Christie Bowman. You may remember she died of an overdose with her face smashed into a broken mirror from which she snorted cocaine in her family home.”

  I didn’t mention I’d found her dead.

  I didn’t mention all the blood.

  I just didn’t.

  Now it was Charlotte’s turn to look at me as if I’d fallen from the sky.

  I soldiered through. “I have an older half-brother. Tate. From Dad’s eighties fling. He ripped me away from Dad on some bullshit excuse, and Dad is too frail to fight for custody.”

  “For real?”

  Her eyes were very big and very green, and I wanted to jump into them and run like they were a rural field.

  Looking down, I nodded and pushed my ass up, suspended by my palms. “At least your sister took responsibility for you because you don’t have parents.”

  This was not the victim Olympics, but it kinda was, seeing as, if one of us would be granted the right to die tonight, it needed to be me.

  “I do have a parent,” I continued, “but my brother is keeping him away. I think it’s because Dad wasn’t there for Tate when he grew up. He got all fucked-up about it, and now he is punishing him through me.”

  “He sounds like a real piece of work.”

  I sat back down, wiped the roof grime on my hoodie, and nodded, realizing I probably looked too eager.

  But no one, except maybe Dad, ever had anything negative to say about Tate, and this was Charlotte Richards, and she’d just called my brother a real piece of work.

  “Tate’s a demon. I could’ve lived with Dad, transitioned to homeschool, gone on book tours around the world. I want to be a writer like him. But no, I have to go to this nightmare of a school and come home to nothing because Tate works eighty-hour weeks.”

  “You said want.” She bit her lower lip. “Not wanted. Present tense.”