Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
That's not even the worst part.
A shredded, torn ruin sits in the cavity where my heart used to be. It's an all-too-familiar feeling—as if my heart went through an industrial-grade shredder. Cade's mouthwatering scent fills my lungs. It's everywhere, as if he's in bed beside me, holding me like he used to do when we were kids, and the world made sense. It's been seven damn years, but he still smells exactly the same. Like home…some indescribably rich and masculine spice that makes me feel safe and whole, even though I'm definitely not whole and probably not even particularly safe.
Even worse?
I remember each excruciating and embarrassing second of what happened last night.
I thought drunk people were supposed to forget whatever humiliating things they did while intoxicated, but no. Not me. I remember every word I said. I remember the way he looked at me like I was breaking his heart even though he crushed mine a long damn time ago. I remember how hard his body felt against mine when he pulled me into his arms. I remember falling apart right in front of him.
I said things to him I never would have said without a bottle and a half of wine pumping through my system.
Things I never wanted him to know. I've been hung up on him for years, unable to forget the one part of my heart that survived my childhood. Now, he knows it, too.
"Wine is the devil," I mumble. Cracking my eyes open, I stare up at the ceiling in my bedroom, trying to find the willpower to get out of bed and get on with my life.
"Knock, knock."
I roll my eyes toward the bedroom door to see Mariah standing right over the threshold, watching me carefully. With her hair up in a bun, her clothes all neat and ironed, and her makeup subtly perfect, she appears as well-coiffed as she does every other day of the week. Her brown eyes fill with worry as they flit across my face.
"How are you functioning?" I groan as my head continues to throb.
Her worried expression eases as she strolls into my room. "Here." She holds out a glass of water, crackers, and some Tylenol. "This will make you feel better."
I grunt wordlessly, not convinced there's enough Tylenol in the world to make me feel better this morning, but I sit up carefully and take it anyway. The water soothes the worst of the pain in my throat. My tongue doesn't feel like it's glued to the roof of my mouth anymore, either.
Mariah perches on the edge of the bed while I nibble on the crackers.
"I remember what happened," I mutter, putting her out of her misery. I know she wants to ask but is afraid to remind me that I lost it last night. Not that I blame her. I wouldn't want to have to deliver that blow if our roles were reversed. Sorry to tell you, but you had a meltdown in front of your ex and had to be carried to bed. It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
"You do?" Relief flashes across her face, and then she gives me a sympathetic frown. "I think you should talk to him."
"No, thanks. I think I talked enough last night," I mumble around a mouthful of crackers.
She eyes me for a minute, running her teeth back and forth over her bottom lip like she does when she's trying to make a difficult decision. She's done the same thing for as long as I've known her. It's a dead giveaway that I'm not going to like whatever she has to say.
"Just tell me," I sigh, ready to get it over with.
"I don't think he's over you," she blurts out.
"Yeah, right." I drop the rest of the crackers into the trashcan beside the bed, my stomach churning. As if I haven't been down that same rabbit hole before. I've had elaborate fantasies of him coming back to profess his undying love so many times over the years it's honestly pathetic. And it always ends the same way…with me crashing back down into painful reality with all the force of a meteor. It hurts every damn time.
"I'm serious, January," she says, pushing her glasses up on her nose before turning her body to face me. "You didn't see the look on his face last night."
"What look?" I ask, curious if she saw the same thing I did or if I just imagined it. I probably just imagined it, but part of me wants to be wrong. That's the same idiotic part that still dreams about him coming back for me.
"He looked like you did for months after he left," she whispers. "And I'm pretty sure he was ready to cry when he ran out of here."
That pulls me up short. In all the years I knew Cade, I never once saw him cry. Not even when…I jerk my mind away, refusing to think about that right now. If I go there, I'll lose it all over again. The point is, I've never seen him cry, so I doubt he was ready to cry over me. Mariah wants to believe in happily-ever-afters so badly she's chasing the same ghosts I used to chase. But eventually, she'll reach the same conclusion I did. Happy endings don't exist in South Central.