Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“You know what I think?” Zoe snapped, ripping off her jacket. She threw it on the back of the couch, then stood between the arm and the wall, blocking my exit.
“No, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me.” I left mine on to keep as many layers between us as possible, but I wasn’t sure if it was for her protection or mine.
“I think your problem is that too many people have let it go.” She folded her arms under the V-neck of her tee, and I yanked my eyes from the sight of her breasts rising toward her neckline, nearly swallowing my tongue.
I promise to never make fun of her dresses again if you just get a fucking grip. Holy shit, I was seriously bargaining with myself.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” she asked.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” And yet she was perilously close to the mark.
“Oh, really? Because, from what I’ve seen, you go off the rails every summer, lose complete control by mid-July, then manage to somewhat pull your shit together in the fall. Except every year, it’s a little worse, and you can’t quite get back to center.” There was zero condemnation in her voice, just pure, straight fact, and maybe a hint of compassion that only managed to irritate me even more.
“Your point is?” I glanced to both sides of her, looking for the best escape route.
“Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened?”
I stilled, yanking my gaze back to hers. How the fuck did she know? No one knew. Not even Jonas, Quinn—
“I mean, something must have happened for you to lose it every summer the way you do, right?” The skin between her eyes crinkled.
If I hadn’t been consumed with relief, and she hadn’t looked so damned concerned, I would have canned her ass.
No one was allowed to get that close. Ever. Not even the people I paid to smooth over the top layer of my psyche.
“When you space out like you did back in the diner, where do you go?” Her voice softened.
“Let it go.” How many times did I have to say it? Fuck this, I was out of here. Even if I had to climb over the fucking couch, I wasn’t staying in this room with her.
“Okay, well, if you’re not talking to me, and you’re not talking to your therapist from rehab”—she put her hands up—“remember, I was in the room when you took that call, then please tell me you’re talking to someone.” The plea in her eyes made my chest ache.
“Why do you care?” I snapped. But it was her job to care, wasn’t it? It was always someone’s job to care. Someone had to watch me, care for me, clean up whatever mess I’d made, and generally be the adult in my life. It was easy to care when you were being paid to.
“Why do I care?” She flinched. “Because I’ve watched you systematically self-destruct for the last four years, and I don’t want to see it happen again! You’re working so hard to stay clean, and if you don’t talk about whatever drives this—whatever flips your switch every summer—you’ll never be free of it.”
Free of it? There was no getting free of it.
“What the hell makes you think I deserve to be free of it?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You know jack and shit about me, Zoe. Not where it really matters.”
She sucked in a breath like I’d wounded her, and I was halfway to her before I even realized I was moving. For every step I took forward, she moved back one, until she was flush against the exposed rock of the decorative wall.
“Fine, then talk to your therapist, a friend…anyone,” she countered softly. “You’ve got to let someone in.”
The hell I do.
My palms met the wall on either side of her head. “And you’ve got to stop thinking you can save me. Spoiler alert—you can’t. Your only job here is to manage the fallout when I inevitably fuck up.” The day, or night, would come eventually. It always did.
“I don’t believe that.” She lifted her chin, and the honesty in her eyes twisted my stomach. Only undamaged people were that certain of their ability to save the ruined ones.
“Then you’re a fool.” I leaned in close, and my gaze dropped to her lips. Not for you, Nixon. It didn’t matter that she was kind, naïve, and unflinchingly sincere when it came to her emotions—I’d still end up shattering her because I was none of those things. “Stop trying to dig around in my head. You won’t like what you find. And, quite frankly, all you’ll accomplish is pissing me off.” I pushed off the wall, grabbed my guitar from the stand next to the couch, and headed toward the porch before I did something we’d both regret.