Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Rubbing the tattoo on my left wrist that sits right above my blue vein, I walk out of the room.
I go to Renn and say, “Tell me about Claire.”
When Renn told me that his mom was his dad’s patient, my first thought was that I’m an idiot.
To fall for a man like that.
Of course he left me. Of course he didn’t want me. Why would he want to tie himself to an illness, to a woman like his mom? He knows the struggle. He knows the burden. He’s seen it, lived it.
But then, slowly, I remembered everything he said, everything he did for me. How he made me realize that I was a fighter. How he wanted me to fight and accept myself. How fondly he talked about his mom that day. How devastated he was about her death. How angry he always seemed at his father.
I went back and looked at the photo, the one Simon always stared at.
In fact, I looked at it a lot of times.
Fine, every day. On my way to breakfast.
There’s a woman in that photo, wearing a red dress, who has the most beautiful gray eyes. Her hair’s all wild and dark. I’m not sure but I think that’s Simon’s mother, Alexandra.
I can’t get her face out of my head now. Her smile and her big eyes. Beth was right. She was stunning, and she killed herself. And that would have still been tolerable if Simon wasn’t the one to find her dead body.
I’m not an expert but that kind of thing just never leaves you. If I ever needed a push to move on and forget about him, this is it.
Simon Blackwood is too damaged, too icy, too unfeeling. And for a good reason. Whatever he is, he isn’t for me. I can’t fix him, no matter how much I want to. How much I’m dying to. And who says he wants to be fixed by me, anyway?
He left, and I can’t even blame my illness because I know it wasn’t that. It wasn’t my damaged brain, it was my heart. He didn’t want my heart.
It’s done though. I’m moving on.
But I brought him flowers.
By him, I mean Simon’s father. I’m attending the funeral. On the down-low, actually. Meaning no one knows I’m here, at the cemetery, hiding behind a tree.
I have only attended one funeral in my life and it became The Funeral Incident. So I am clearly not the best person to have around when someone dies.
But I couldn’t stay at home, knowing that Simon would be going through this alone. Not that he is alone. There are people, tons of people, around him. I see Beth and Dr. Martin off to the side, among a lot of others that I don’t know. Clearly, his dad was well-known.
And it’s a good thing. Because not only is Simon not alone, but I have only been able to see the top of his head through the crowd.
I am afraid to see him.
I am afraid that if I see him, I’ll throw myself at him and confess my love, and then I might slap him and hit him like I did that day. Only difference will be that he won’t be able to have me sedated. So he won’t be able to escape.
Sometimes I can’t believe I did that. Attacked him and basically, goaded him to have me put down.
Yeah, let’s keep the distance.
After a while, I see people starting to leave, a sea of black coats and hats and umbrellas. I huddle behind the tree, out of everyone’s sight, my heart lurching in my chest. As soon as everyone leaves, I’ll go put the flowers on the fresh grave and leave too.
He is right here, though.
God.
He’s so close. So, so close that if I wanted, I could smell him.
“Okay, Willow. Relax,” I tell myself. “It’s okay. Things are okay. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to see his face. Because if you do then it will be harder to move on. You need to move on. You need that. Ruth is right. Listen to your therapist. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. Okay?”
I sigh, clenching my eyes shut, and repeat, “Don’t look.”
Oh God. This is fucking hard.
I’m shivering. My legs won’t stay still, and my breaths are choppy, and it’s not because of the winter rain.
I hear footsteps approaching me and my eyes, despite telling them to stay closed for about the ninetieth time, whip open.
And there he is, standing right in front of me.
Wearing a black suit, a tie, and his polished wingtips. Wearing the raindrops on his slightly-too-long hair and shoulders.
I wish he wasn’t real, but he is. I know. I can feel it. I can feel him beating right alongside my heart in my breastbone.
“Were you talking to yourself?”