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)
My chest aches, and there’s a sudden stinging sensation behind my eyes. “For some reason, he makes me feel better. He makes me feel like myself again. And it’s sort of like when I was a kid, and I would just get used to not hearing from you before you would call all of a sudden, or take me shopping, or you would send me a present. And I would get all caught up in you again. All I could think was, this time would be different. This time, it means something. I think it would’ve been easier if you had forgotten me, and I had forgotten you. I really do.”
A tear rolls down my cheek before I can catch it. “And now, I know what it’s like to feel better. He makes me remember how it was before Kristoff. He reminds me of who I was and want to be again. And then he takes it away.” I snap my fingers with a sinking heart. “And I’m back to square one. My whole life, I’ve been going through this endless cycle. I don’t know how to make it stop or even if it’s possible to make it stop. I don’t know anything.”
What would a mother — a loving, caring mother — say at a time like this? God, I wish I knew. I wish I had the first clue. Ultimately, I’m still the motherless girl, wandering around, wishing somebody would love her. Not because they have to, but because they want to.
Fuck, I’m a mess.
What would I want my mother to say to me now, if she was alive, if she cared? What would I need to hear? That I am lovable. That I’m worth loving, even when I’m bitchy and needy. Even when I’m at my lowest point. I would want her to tell me everything is going to be okay. Kristoff is gone, he’s never coming back, and the big bad wolf can’t get me because people are protecting me. Romero hinted at that. Whatever he’s doing now, it’s to get rid of Jeff. I have to believe it will work.
I would want her to remind me that I was safe at the club. Before all the craziness with Romero, I was really safe. The guy touched me, but he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t want to, either. We danced like I danced with so many guys before him, just a casual thing with no meaning behind it. And I lived through it. There is hope.
Thanks to Romero. Why does it always keep coming back to him? I actually shoot a dirty look at the urn like it’s the urn’s fault and not my tangled subconscious, throwing thoughts and ideas at me. I felt safe because he was there, watching. I felt safe because I knew he would kill anybody who put their hands on me. That might be a euphemism for some people, but I know better. He would literally have destroyed anyone in his path.
So the way it looks right now, I’ll be fine so long as he’s always with me. The man who punched a heavy bag until his hands bled, all because we had a fight. No big deal.
I might as well wish for a unicorn for my next birthday.
The sight of a girl walking down the sidewalk across the street catches my attention. I’m so bored; anything makes me sit up and take notice. What stands out most about her is how pretty she is — long, black hair with killer cheekbones that look like they could cut glass even from a distance. She wears the general neighborhood uniform of torn jeans, sneakers, and an oversized hoodie.
And she’s looking at this house like she’s waiting for it to burst into flames.
I’m off the sofa by the time she crosses the street, placing the urn on the coffee table and watching from the window. She’s not actually coming over here, is she? I don’t recognize her from that night at the lake or any other time I’ve been out around here. She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, chews her bottom lip like she’s questioning herself… then walks up the steps and crosses the porch.
And here I am with my heart in my throat, all because of some strange girl. It’s almost depressing. By the time she knocks on the door, I shake off my flash of fear — but that doesn’t mean I fling the door open, either. With the chain in place, I open it just enough for us to come face-to-face. The surprise in her large, dark eyes says she wasn’t expecting to see me.
“Can I help you?” I murmur.
She blinks rapidly, her smooth forehead creasing in confusion. “Oh. I, um, I thought… I mean, is Romero around?”
Something hot and uncomfortable uncoils in my stomach. “Who wants to know?”