Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Worry for me that I’ve never seen on another individual – all foster parents included – springs on her face. “You’re okay, though? Other than the limp?”
My non fork wielding hand grips the back of my neck and gives it a harsh squeeze forcing my head to fall forward in shame.
Fuck, I hate the fact that she noticed.
That it’s noticeable.
That my weakness is so fucking exposed.
Anxious to get out of the spotlight, I abruptly declare, “I’m full.”
“Oh.”
The dejection in her tone lands on my shoulders.
Chest.
Crushes my ribcage.
Vocal cords.
Makes it almost impossible to meet her gaze.
“Okay,” Jaye sweetly backs down yet the gentle grin on her expression remains. “You can go ahead and get settled in for the night if you like.”
“I can help with the dish-”
“Don’t worry about those. I’ll take care of them.” She struggles to redirect her attention to a piece of food on her plate. “And I’ll leave the light on in the guest half bath just in case you need to go in the middle of the night.”
“Jaye-”
“Remember to turn the space heater off before you fall asleep,” my hostess continues as though I hadn’t tried to interrupt. “Don’t wanna burn the house down. Police and firefighters in my driveway would be a lot for one day.”
“Ja-”
“Once your clothes are ready, I’ll fold them and leave them outside the door to the garage, so I don’t wake you up. Assuming you’re asleep.”
Sensing that she no longer wants to hear from me, I quietly concede. “Thank you again.”
She meekly nods, pokes her food, and doesn’t bother watching me exit.
Look, I fucking tried, okay? My people skills are a little rusty. Fuck. Fine. Really fucking rusty but that doesn’t mean I didn’t try to be friendly or flirty. And I didn’t mean to be rude. Or hurt her feelings. Or deny her the chance she desperately wants to be something more than the woman with the fresh trash and guy who eats it. I did my best and like everything else in my life, it wasn’t good enough. I’m not good enough. I’ve never been good enough. To be adopted into a family. To be promoted high in the ranks. To be loved for more than the tags around my neck. Not once have I ever been good enough, so why did I think because some brown eyed beauty looked at me like I could give her the world that for a second I believed I could? I’ll tell you why. Because hope is the most dangerous drug of them all. Far more addicting than any substance you could ever smoke or inject and much more fatal. I thought I’d given that shit up a long time ago. Guess I made the mistake of having another hit tonight. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to properly purge that shit from my system in the morning before I disappear out of her life forever.
Chapter 7
Jaye
You’re not still fussing at me for letting a complete stranger spend the night in my home, are you? You should definitely just give that shit a rest! Seriously. I’m fine. I know I look cute and sweet and like I scream easy target, but I’m not. I sleep with my Beretta within arms’ reach. I go to the shooting range with Dad for target practice every six weeks. And we clean our firearms together afterwards while cookies bake. I swear, I’m good in that aspect, but even if I weren’t, it wouldn’t have mattered last night. He didn’t make a single sound after he closed himself inside the garage. Not. Fucking. One. Do I wish he had? Yes. Do I wish he had needed something else so that he had another excuse to talk to me rather than shut down? Ugh. I hate to admit it, but yes. And you wanna know what’s the weirdest thing about this whole situation - putting aside of course the obvious portion of inviting some stranger to stay warm in my home. Last night’s dinner was…ohmygod, I’m really gonna say this, aren’t I? Okay. Last night’s dinner was the best date – or date adjacent meal – I’ve ever had. Ever. Even me and Chris’s first date – or date like situation – wasn’t that smooth. Or smiley. Fuck, I couldn’t stop smiling during pretty much the whole damn thing. What is wrong with me? Seriously. Am I just that…lonely? Am I just that afraid of turning into the nursery rhyme about the little old woman who lived in a shoe?
I’ve just finished adjusting the sleeves on my chunky, light gray sweater when my cellphone starts buzzing across my nightstand. Always happy to see my dad’s face on the screen, I quickly answer it in a cheerful tone, “Good morning, Dad!”
“Good morning, sugar.” The term of endearment warms me up further. “You doing okay after that storm?”