Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 151333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
My heart pounds, my head swims, my skin breaks out in a thin sweat. Why is it suddenly so hot? I wish I could take my sweatshirt off but I only have a bra on underneath. There’re so many windows, but none of them are open. I need air—
“You okay, Sparkles?”
I blink at Jude, who’s suddenly blurry.
“Skylar?” His face finally comes into my vision, and he’s narrowing his steel eyes at me. “You’re white as a ghost again.”
“I’m sorry… I feel dizzy.”
“Shit.” He pushes his chair back and goes to the sink, where he wets a clump of paper towels. “Put this on your forehead,” he says. I do as he asks, pressing the cold towels to my face.
“Try to drink this.” He twists the top off a bottle from the fridge and hands it to me. “It’s basically orange-flavored water. It has electrolytes. There’s nothing weird in it. Nothing that can go bad. I know I’m breaking our no-pushing-food-or-drinks deal, but I can’t let you pass out in my damn kitchen.”
“Okay,” I whisper, giving in. I vaguely remember drinking drinks like this when I was younger. I don’t like putting things in my mouth that are crayon colors, because I never thought that could be right or safe.
My fingers shake as I grip the bottle. Jude wouldn’t give me anything bad. I watched him twist the top off. I heard the little snap of the seal. This is a new, unopened drink. There’s a bathroom right down the hall if it makes me sick, and Jude’s already proven he’ll take me to a hospital if I were to get really sick.
I trust him.
Tentatively, I sip the cold, mildly sweet drink, and it’s not horrible. I wait for something bad to happen—what, I don’t know—but nothing does. It’s actually very refreshing. I wish it was clear and not bright orange, but as long as I don’t look at the color, I think I can drink it without freaking out.
“D-Do you have a dark mug you can pour it in? And a straw?” I ask.
Four seconds later, he’s pouring the flavored water into a tall, black mug and pops a green straw in it.
I smile in thanks and continue to drink with my eyes closed. The sweetness is nice. The lightheadedness starts to subside. Nothing bad is happening. “I think I was starting to have an anxiety attack,” I say. “I don’t think it’s the same as when I fainted last time.”
“Anxiety attack?” he repeats, plopping into the chair across from me. “Why? Are you scared to be here?”
Scared. Excited. Worried. Hopeful.
I lower my gaze to the dog curled up on a little rug in front of the sink, a faded teddy bear toy next to her. She’s content here. Loved.
“A little nervous. I think I’m scared about making the wrong decision.” I remove the damp towels from my forehead and place them on the table in front of me. “I’m so tired of living in that house. And feeling sick all the time. I’m afraid of what will happen to me if I stay there.”
“So am I,” he agrees softly.
“I almost didn’t start school this year,” I admit. “I was just going to drop out and work full time, so I could hopefully make enough money to rent a room or apartment.” I swallow more of the cold drink. “But I promised my grandfather I’d never drop out. I know it’s silly, but even though he’s gone, I’m afraid he’d know if I did it.”
“It’s not silly. You should stay in school. Even go to college. It’s so fuckin’ hard to get your shit together if you make bad choices when you’re young. Sometimes you can’t ever get out of the hole. Trust me, I’ve been there.”
“I feel like I’ve got one foot in that hole already.”
“That’s why I’m trying to help you.”
Twirling the straw in my drink, I study him across the table and try to figure out what his deal is. Why is he living here alone? Shouldn’t a good-looking guy his age be married already? Why didn’t he sell this big house and get something smaller? Why doesn’t he want to repaint that pink room? And why, why, why does he want to help me?
I lick my lips nervously. “I still don’t understand why you want to help me. I’m just a nobody.”
He recoils from my comment. “You’re not a nobody.”
“But you don’t even know me… Not really.”
“So? People help each other every day without really knowing them, don’t they?” He leans his elbows on the table, his intense gray eyes fixed on mine. “Doctors help patients. People carry your bags at the store. Some donate money to strangers. They stop to help if your car’s stuck on the side of the road. There are good people in the world, Skylar. People who don’t want anything in return except to know that they helped someone else. I’ve had a shitty past. I’ve done some shitty things. Maybe I just want a chance to do something good for once. Is that so bad?”