Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 32284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Damn spot. Why won't it come out?
Draven's encouragement to contact my dad rattles around in my head. The suggestion was thoughtful and sweet, but he doesn't know my old man. He doesn't know what he's capable of. The longer I resist calling, the more it pricks at my conscience. I've tried keeping busy to keep the thoughts from taking over, but it's not working. My head refuses to stay quiet.
What if Draven is right about Dad? What if he died and I never saw him again?
The items inside Draven's precious box are valuable treasures connecting him to his father. The objects are insignificant and hold no real value. Yet Draven's eyes held an ocean of pain when he shared his precious objects. All his love transferred to them, but objects are no substitute.
Is that what it feels like when you lose someone close to you, even though it's someone you hate? No. I don't hate my father, and in a way, I'm afraid I will end up hating him if I'm around him too long. I don't agree with many of his beliefs.
I've been so busy fighting him that I never considered how I'd feel if he wasn't around. All I thought about was being away from him, as far away as possible.
His influence was stifling, and I feared I'd say something I didn't mean. Or even if I meant it in the heat of the moment, when bad things are said, they can never be unsaid. And that's why I left home. To preserve what was left of our relationship, but maybe I didn't do the right thing.
The kettle whistles, the high-pitched sound snapping my attention to the present moment. The spout is too close to the window, causing clouds of steam to condense on the glass pane. Awesome. One more thing to clean.
I pour hot water over the tea bag, leaving it to steep while I attack the window. But my mind is in turmoil and tears sting my eyes, so I throw the used cloth in the sink, grab my mug of tea and wander outside.
Striding to the furthest corner of the yard, I take a seat on a bench under a willow tree. I take a deep breath and gaze toward the forest where Draven and I shared a magical night, expecting the view to cheer me up. But whereas I remember the foliage being a deep shade of emerald green, the leaves are gray, and the forest overall bleak and dreary. I take a sip of tea to lift my spirits. I swear I poured a spoon of sugar into my mug, but the tea is bitter.
I put the mug down and turn my gaze to the Woodburn mansion. As I survey the imposing exterior, it's hard to remember how overwhelmed I felt when I arrived at the grand and stately house. It feels like so long ago, and so much has changed in a few short weeks. I was timid and afraid when I arrived, but now I feel like a different person.
Home.
The word feels loaded now. I thought I knew what that meant when I left my father's house, but it's taken on new meaning since meeting Draven. My home is wherever he is. I never want to leave him, and that certainty gives me the courage to stand up to my dad.
The tears I held back in the kitchen resurface, stinging my eyes, and I glance at my phone. There are a dozen missed calls and messages from him. Waiting for him to call me again is the coward's way out. It's time to pull up my big girl panties and return his call, so I head back to my room.
Draven's room is palatial, but my room is modest, and the plain surroundings suit me perfectly. I'll let Dad see enough to know I'm safe and comfortable, but no more than that. There's no telling what he'd do if he knew the Woodburns are wealthy.
Draven gave me a laptop. It has all the bells and whistles, and when I protested, he pushed back, saying he had a bunch of spare hardware lying around. He couldn't explain why it came in a box, wrapped in plastic, but he's adorable, and I'm grateful for the way he cares for me.
Setting myself up in a comfy chair, I take a deep breath and dial. A pang of guilt stabs my heart when Dad's puffy red face fills the screen. His balding head is covered in thinning strands of hair, highlighting shiny patches of skin. He looks more disheveled than usual.
"Hey, Dad." I missed him for a split second before realizing he's deliberately made himself look worse to make me feel bad.
"Where have you been, kiddo? I tried calling a bunch of times," he says, shoulders sagging.