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)
But I couldn’t take the drink, because I wouldn’t stop at one. I couldn’t refill the Xanax prescription or the Ambien. The only thing I could do was make some goddamned tea, and I couldn’t even find the box.
I knocked something out of the cabinet, and it fell to the granite beneath, shattering.
“Fuck!”
Sure enough, a moment later, the hall light came on, then the kitchen light blared overhead, harsh and brutally bright.
“What are you doing?” Zoe asked, her cheeks pink with sleep.
“Stay there,” I barked over my shoulder. “I broke something, and I don’t want you to get cut.” There was sugar all over the counter, and little shards of crystal lay scattered from the granite to the floor.
The teakettle started to whistle.
“You stay there,” Zoe ordered, walking around the island to take the water off the stove. “You’re the one who’s barefoot...and shirtless. At least I have on slippers.”
“A shirt isn’t going to help this situation, and I’m not just going to stand here while you clean up my mess.” I brushed the sugar and glass into my open palm as she grabbed the broom and dustpan.
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” She swept around my feet, and as soon as I had a path, I dumped the contents of my hand into the trash can.
“Shit.” She hissed.
I turned to see her on the floor, cradling her hand. My stomach twisted at the thin line of blood just below her thumb. “Zoe. Damn it.” I came up behind her and scooped her up beneath her arms, turning so I could sit her on the island. “I told you not to clean up my mess.”
“That’s literally my job,” she snapped. “And it’s not bad. See?”
“What I see is you bleeding because I couldn’t find the damned tea. Just…stay there. And this time, I mean it.” I pointed at her, like that would help, then grabbed the first aid kit from where I’d seen it in the downstairs bathroom.
“It’s not that bad,” she repeated as I came back. “Just needs a Band-Aid.”
I put the kit on the counter and snapped open the lid, then glanced at the blood that welled along the cut. “Let me help.”
Let me help. It was her voice I heard now, reminding me that when she’d been the one to need it, I hadn’t been there. The blood on Zoe’s hand was the same shade as the curly hair in my dream. My chest tightened as I fought the urge to let the box fly open, fought the urge to stand in that kitchen and scream at the injustice of a world that allowed someone like me to live, but not—
“Nixon?” Zoe prompted softly.
I blinked, bringing her face into focus, using the startling green of her eyes to ground me.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I don’t like blood either.” She plucked a bandage from the container, cleaned the cut with an alcohol pad, then dressed it herself. Calm. Efficient. Steady.
Everything I wasn’t.
“Good as new.” She flashed a smile, but when she moved to jump from the counter, I gripped her warm hips over the thin shorts of her pajamas.
“Stay put.” I finished cleaning up the glass, and only when I was certain there was nothing left that could cut her, I nodded. “Okay. It’s good.”
She slid off the island, then grabbed the box of tea from the cabinet next to the one I’d been ransacking. Without asking if that’s the one I had been looking for, she prepared two cups and set them on the counter, then brought the honey over.
“Does it hurt?” I asked as the tea steeped, motioning to her hand.
“No.” She shook her head, her hair sweeping softly over her bare shoulders.
“I’m so sorry.” That tank top was going to be the death of me if I stared too long, so I focused on the cups in front of us.
“Better me than you,” she said with a little laugh, hopping back up to sit on the island.
“Don’t say that,” I snapped. Our gazes collided.
“It’s true.” Her eyebrows rose.
“It’s bullshit.”
“I’m not the one who has to play a show in four days. You need your hand for that.” She shrugged.
“You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistake!” That’s always how it worked, wasn’t it? I fucked up. Someone else paid the price. But not Zoe. She was where I drew the line—where my “always” became “used to.”
“Nixon,” she whispered, softening as she slid her hand toward mine on the counter, but stopped just shy of touching it. “It’s just a little cut. Tiny. No stitches. No blood loss.”
“For now,” I muttered.
“You act like you’re some kind of wrecking ball. You’re not.” Her finger brushed mine.
“Says the woman who currently has to babysit me.” I scoffed. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly easy on the people around me.” Including you.