Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
And he had to see it, didn't he? He had to be there. Watching. Witnessing my breakdown. Acting like my big, benevolent protector. He even wanted to talk things out today. What a joke. Like that would do anything. He wants to be my friend all of a sudden? The guy acts like he knows me so well yet doesn’t have the first clue. The last thing I want is to feel pitied.
He pities me, and the idea makes searing hatred burn through me like acid. I felt it last night in the arm he draped over my shoulder. I never thought I’d crave sarcasm, but he left me wishing he’d call me spoiled or reminded me this was all my own fault. That, I can deal with. That, I can brush off the way I have so many times. It's sort of a skill I’ve had to master.
Kindness? No, thank you. He was only acting that way because he felt like he had to. It was pitiful.
He thinks I'm weak. Broken. It doesn't matter if that's how I feel sometimes. I don't want him to think it.
What am I supposed to do? How do I face him now?
Out of habit, I snatch my phone off the nightstand. There's one person I've always gone to for advice when I need it the most. But when I pull up my text history with Bianca, all I can do is hover my thumbs over the keyboard, frozen. I don't want to tell her about last night, either. Besides, it's too much to text, and I might get emotional if I have to describe it. I've done enough crying and questioning my sanity.
But as much as I love her, and as long a history as we have, what if she tells Dad? We’re best friends, but he’s her husband—God, it’s still weird to think about it. Her loyalty to him might outweigh our loyalty. It’s not like I did anything wrong, but he might be pissed if he finds out Romero let me go to a club. I wouldn't put it past him. And as much as I don't care if Romero gets in trouble, I don't need him being bitchy about it while I have no choice but to live with him.
I settle for texting something plain and low-stakes.
Me: How is everything going? I miss you.
I drop the phone on my chest, staring up at the ceiling. The silence around here is deafening. I don't hear him down the hall or downstairs, and it's way past his usual wake-up time. He's one of those people who likes to get up as early as possible for some bizarre reason. We’re pretty much opposites in every way possible.
The phone almost buzzes its way off my chest—I wasn’t expecting her to get back to me right away, but her quick response has made me smile for the first time since waking up.
Bianca: I miss you! Things are okay here. How are you?
It's not like I've never lied to my best friend, and it's for the best that I do now. She doesn't need to worry about me with the baby and everything. She’s been through enough drama as it is. The poor kid will end up being born with PTSD.
Me: I'm okay. Bored out of my mind. Wishing we could have brunch or go shopping.
It makes me sad when I look back at all the missed opportunities to do those things. I pushed her away just like I pushed everyone away all summer. It was too exhausting trying to put on a happy face. And once she knew the truth after spotting my bruises, I couldn't shake the feeling that she imagined me being hurt whenever she looked at me. I know now, like I knew then, that she wasn't trying to make me feel bad, which is why I didn't lash out at her. No, I would lash out at Romero instead.
Bianca: Me, too. This will all be over soon. And then you can come home.
Will it be that easy? The thing is, it doesn't matter where I am. The memories are always there. I can't escape my own head.
I drop the phone on the bed, scrubbing my fists over my eyes. I really should get moving—I’m breaking my pattern and was starting to like having more structure in my days. But damn it, I will not let him look at me the way he did last night. I'd rather stay up here all day than shrink under the crushing weight of his pity.
Something tells me Mr. Abs of Steel will pull me out of this room kicking and screaming if I don't show my face at some point today. He'll tell me it's for the best, that he's only thinking of me, and whatever else he thinks I need to hear because he's being paid to say it.