Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 134387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 672(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 672(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
He settled the helmet on my head. “Yeah, I’m not surprised.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Friend,” he buckled the helmet under my chin a little sharply, making me bite my lip. “I’m starting to realize that you’ve got a thing for everything that’s dangerous and crazy.”
I shouldn’t have smiled at that. It wasn’t a compliment.
Like it wasn’t a compliment when he said I was worse than bad, but still, it felt like one.
Maybe because when he finished settling the helmet on my head, he stepped back and took off his vintage leather jacket.
I watched his shoulders rolling and his biceps bunching as they did the work of taking it off and then draping it over my shoulders. When I put my hands through the sleeves, he then proceeded to zip it up, right up to my chin like I’m a child or something.
When I said thank you, his jaw moved.
And then we took off and he did step on it, while I hung onto him.
Now we’re here, at my favorite place ever.
My little darling place.
It’s a bridge in Bardstown over the largest and bluest river that I’ve ever seen. It connects the main highway of the town to… nothing.
Well, okay. So it’s old and rusty, this bridge, with a two-rod metal railing, stretching between an abandoned dirt road that’s broken off the main highway to wild woods.
I’m not sure why they made it.
It’s not really serving a purpose, connecting a dirt path that no one really knows about to savage, unnavigable woods. It simply sits here, taking up space, looking all dark and desolate and empty.
A lot like doomed love of eight years.
Which doesn’t serve any purpose either. It’s dismal and useless. Bleak.
And yet so fucking beautiful.
Just because the one you love is in love with someone else doesn’t mean your love isn’t gorgeous or real. It doesn’t mean that your love should be killed or it should be torn out of your heart and thrown into a river or burnt down like an extinct piece of architecture.
No, it’s still love. Like this is still a bridge.
“What the fuck is this place?” Arrow asks distractedly as he looks around, his bike parked on one side.
I watch him under the moon, all sparkly and glowy.
His hair’s all messy and sticking up in places after he took off the helmet – he gave me his spare one – and his fingers are not helping things. He rakes them through the strands, messing them up even more, making him look the most stunning that I’ve ever seen him.
“Do you like it?” I ask, smiling, feeling warm and cozy in his jacket, that I unzipped during the ride because his proximity was hot enough, and loving it.
At my words, he focuses on me.
I’m by the railing, gripping the metal rod, using it to stretch back my spine.
He takes me in, my slightly swaying form, before settling his gaze on my hair. It’s fluttering in the breeze and it’s so long that if I stretch myself back even more and go parallel to the ground, it’ll touch the dirt. I’ve tried it before; it’s fun.
Finally, he looks up from his perusal of me. “Do I like it?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Yes.”
“What’s there to like?”
Straightening up, I gasp. “Are you serious?”
His lips twitch. “As a heart attack.”
I shake my head at him and his amused lips. “God, you’re so… unimaginative. This is my favorite place in the world. I used to come here all the time when I rode my pretty yellow bicycle, which I totally miss doing, but anyway. Look at the water.” I stick my hand in the air and point to the water. I actually turn around myself to look at it. “It’s shimmering under the moonlight. It’s sparkling. And it’s so vast. It’s the only thing your eyes can see. And look at the moon.” I point with my hand again. “It’s so red. Like a fireball or something. I bet it’s hot. Like the sun. And the woods.” I turn to point to the woods as well. “So dense and mysterious and wild. Everything is so pretty here. Raw and natural and stunning.”
It is.
The glinting dark water, the fat red moon and the thick bramble of woods.
Biting my lip, I turn to look at him again. Or at least try to, because somewhere in my twisting and turning, my feet slip and I stumble. My arms sort of flail and I manage to grab hold of the railing to stop my fall, but turns out I shouldn’t have bothered.
Because he is here.
My Arrow. My friend.
He comes to my rescue, grabbing my bicep and pulling me up. He even sets me against the railing, all within three seconds.
“You have –”
I raise my finger and shake my head, cutting him off. “Uh-uh. You can’t say anything mean to me now.”