Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“You’re reading my mail now?”
Hissing, he plucked the letter from her hands—but something sick jolted through him as he realized the sender was a law firm.
…fuck.
He spilled the letter out and unfolded it. Not a letter—a notification of intent to sue.
From Oliver Newcomb.
Alleging battery. Defamation.
“Why didn’t you tell me what happened?” his mother asked sharply. “Maxwell informed me of what that terrible man did to you. I shouldn’t have had to hear it from him. If you’d never gone into that world, if you’d never insisted on—”
“Stop it.” Cillian whirled on her, the letter crumpling in his palm. “Just stop. Stop needing to prove that mother’s always right. Stop trying to push all your fears and projections on me. Stop blaming me for what someone else did to me.” He couldn’t stop shaking; he’d never raised his voice to his mother in his life, and even now her stunned look made him feel like a little boy. “Do you remember the story you told me about the first settlers here? About how they survived the long winter that cut us off from the world?”
Her slow nod was silent, almost wary.
“It’s like you never broke out of that. Like the ice is still locking you in, and you’re scared to break past it.” He stared at her, pleading, begging her to understand. “Just because your world doesn’t extend beyond this shore doesn’t mean mine should be locked here, too. You can’t keep me here as an eternal child forever. You can’t tie me here with obligation. There’s more to the world than these ridiculous traditions, and I want to see that world, not stay trapped in this time capsule, stagnating away.”
His mother pinched her lips, then looked away with a hurt little sniff. “…I never meant to trap you.”
“But you did,” Cillian said. “I love you, Mum, but you have got to let me go my own way.”
“Well…” Her nose turned up. “It’s not really like I can stop you, can I? You’re an adult. One who never answers his phone. I suppose that, too, is part of letting you go. Accepting you’re going to ignore me.”
It came out sulky, soft, and Cillian sighed, smiling faintly. His mother was a prideful thing, couldn’t ever be wrong…but that was something of a concession, at least.
“No,” he said softly. “You can’t stop me. But I don’t want to ignore you, either.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then, and for a moment her fingers touched his cheek before he pulled back, standing, catching up the wrinkled mess of the letter and folding it into his pocket. Pacing to his closet, he ducked inside, stretching up on his toes to lug down a suitcase from the overhead shelf.
“Cillian…?” his mother called fretfully. “What are you doing?”
“Packing,” he said. “I’m going back to the States.”
“Love, for what? If you’re in their jurisdiction—”
“I know,” he said, and smiled, teeth clenched together—and for a moment the ghost of Richard Kerrington rose up inside him, battle-ready and eager for the challenge. He couldn’t call Brendan a coward—not when Cillian had been running, too. Afraid to make a decision. Afraid to take a stand for himself. “That’s what I want. One way or another…I’m going to fix this, Mum. And I’m not going to run away.”
“I…I suppose that’s admirable of you,” she said, halting and slow. “But considering the ferries from the mainland just stopped…just how do you intend to get there?”
l
BRENDAN CLOSED THE SCRIPT AND tossed it onto the coffee table, then slumped down against the sofa and closed his eyes.
“No.”
Perched cross-legged on the ottoman with his laptop propped between his knees, Drake sighed. “…why not this one?”
“It’s dull. Lackluster. It’s just going to be two hours of desaturated low-light shots and people standing around with the wind in their hair while ominous music plays. It’s like The Happening without the trees.”
“It can’t be as bad as that abomination.”
Brendan opened his eyes, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “…do you even read the scripts you send me?”
“Yes, which is how I know it’s not that bad, and you’re just being a diva again.” Drake sighed. “This is the eleventh one you’ve turned down in six months. Do you even want to work?”
“Yes, just not on this,” Brendan growled, flopping a hand listlessly at the script. “I’m just…tired of the same old thing. I want…I don’t know what I fucking want.”
“You want Cillian back,” Drake pointed out, and Brendan stiffened.
Fuck.
Hearing that after months shouldn’t…it shouldn’t still hit like yesterday. This fresh stab wound, twisting its way between his ribs.
“…yeah,” he admitted hoarsely. “I do.”
“Brendan Octavius Lau,” Drake proclaimed, “I do believe you may be pining.”
“…I do believe I will throw you out a fifth floor window.”
“Shut up, asshole, I’m trying to be nice to you.”
Drake then promptly transferred himself from the ottoman to the sofa at Brendan’s side; he dropped down heavily—then leaned toward Brendan, narrowing his eyes.