Page 65 of Trigger Happy Ending

It spells “Ride or Die.” She has a matching one already around her wrist.

“Well, happy birthday, Angel. Not as cool as matching tattoos, but still fun, right?”

I smile before I can stop it. “Right.”

Cherry has no idea this is the first present I’ve received in over a decade. The last present I received was my snowflake necklace from my mom. This means just as much.

My step feels lighter as we wander on, tearing into warm pretzels and laughing at kids chasing giant bubbles.

“You excited to start over?” I ask as I shove a huge mouthful of cotton candy in my mouth.

“Like crazy. I’m thinkin’ I’ll open a flower shop.”

I glance sideways, swallowing the sticky substance and licking my lips. “What do you know about flowers?”

“They look pretty and smell good. Just like us, honey.”

“Well, I smell good.” I elbow her playfully. “Dunno about you.”

She laughs. “Ha ha, very funny.”

My chest aches when I remind myself this feeling is all just temporary. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that right now, with this bracelet tight around my wrist and this friend by my side, it almost feels possible.

What if I did run? Simply disappeared?

Smyth confirmed it’s easy to create a new identity. The logistics of a new identity isn’t what’s stopping me though. It’s the thought of letting go of the one thing I’ve chased for so many years: Revenge. If I start over, it would mean I’d have to let it go.

Let her go.

And I don’t know if I can. But for the first time in my life, I’m questioning my desperate need for answers. I’m starting to figure out that finding out the truth won’t bring my mom back. So, what’s the point? Is it for closure?

“Angel?” Cherry stops, facing me. Her crimson hair wisps across her face in the breeze. “I mean what I said: I want you to come with me.”

I run my fingers through my hair. “Cherry, stop, it’s not—”

“Listen. I don’t know your story. But I like to think I read people pretty well, and you’ve been real hard to get to know deeper than a surface level. I know you did that on purpose. Trust me, I get it. But underneath all this bad-ass bitchery you got goin’ on? You’ve got a good heart. You deserve good things. I just wish you’d realize it.”

“Bad-ass bitchery?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Cherry scolds me. “I saw you slip a hundred to that homeless guy earlier. Even when you thought no one was watching. Only good, kind people do that.”

I still. “Good” and “kind” are two words that should never be used to describe someone like me. There’s too much blood on my hands for me to be included in those categories.

Cherry reaches for me, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Let the light in, baby. Whatever it is … forgive yourself. And remember, you cannot heal in the same environment that made you sick. I read that on Pinterest once.”

I smile. Don’t I know it.

I raise my hand and place it over hers and say one of the most sincere sentences ever to cross my lips. “I’m glad I met you, Cherry.”

“I’m glad I met you, too, darlin’.”

We walk on, drifting past booths and street performers. Everything’s warm and alive.

“You know there are people who can help you,” I offer. “If you don’t want to hide forever, I mean.”

“Nah,” she replies. “I don’t need helplines or shelters. He’ll still find me.”

We continue walking for a few moments, arms looped together. I wish more than anything I could tell her who I really am. I wonder if she would freak out? Run from me? Would she even believe me? It’s so far-fetched, but often the truth is stranger than fiction.