Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
I sit on the floor with my knees curled to my chest and sob as I watch my brother’s little dot move toward me on the app we have to track each other. He can’t get here quick enough, and at the same time, he’s going to want some answers, but I don’t want to talk about this with him or anyone else.
Breathe, Luna. In, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4.
I don’t know how long I sit there talking myself off the razor edge of anxiety when there’s a gentle knock at the door. “Luna, dear?”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. I don’t think I can say it enough at this point.
“Everyone else is gone. It’s just me and you. Why don’t you come out here and let me make you a glass of tea?”
Elena is being too kind, triggering fresh anxiety to shoot through me. I shake my head, though she can’t see me.
“You gonna make me bust this door down? I’ll do it if I have to. I can also pick a lock if need be. It’s a good skill to have,” she says conversationally.
What?
“How . . . how do you know how to do that?” I ask. It doesn’t matter, but I think that’s probably why she threw that information out there to begin with.
“Open the door and I’ll tell you while I teach you.”
A lockpicking lesson? Now? The absurdity of it makes a small smile creep up my lips.
Almost as if she knows, Elena adds, “These old locks are pretty easy, but I’m not too good with the new-fangled ones. Never had a reason to pick one of those, I guess.”
“Why did you pick the old ones?” The question escapes without my even planning to speak.
“Because I’m a nosey old cuss, mostly,” she laughs. “Hated being out of the know about a thing, so I used to break into my daddy’s office and my momma’s bathroom. Oh, and the barn, but that was one of those spinny combination locks. Combination was my parents’ anniversary. Easy as pie.”
She’s totally distracted me with her story, so I jump a foot when the door swings open. Elena stands there, proud as you please, with a bobby pin in her fingers. “You want that lesson or you want some tea before your brother gets here? Either way, you’re getting up off that floor.”
She holds her hand out to help me up, and though I take it to be polite, I don’t pull on her a bit. I get up on my own, and Elena looks at me with something resembling approval. But that can’t be right. There’s no way after I lied and hid in her bathroom.
“Come on, then. I think I’m gonna take a shot of whiskey in my tea. You too?” She turns and walks off, leaving me to follow or not.
I shuffle after her, my Converse squeaking on the marble floor. “I’m sorry,” I tell her again as she pours a shot . . . make that two . . . into a glass sitting on a tray on the coffee table. I guess Nelda’s already been here. I feel guilty over her hard work fixing dinner and nobody eating it. Sitting down in the corner of the couch, I wish I could curl up but know better than to get my shoes on the furniture. Still, if I could become one with the arm of the couch, I would.
“Enough apologies, dear. You want a skinny shot or a heavy-handed one like mine?” she asks, holding up the bottle of amber liquid.
“Uh, skinny?” I don’t think I’ve ever had tea and whiskey before. The pour she makes is lighter than her own, but still longer than I would’ve done.
She holds it out and then clinks her own glass to mine before sitting down. She takes a big sip, swallowing several times, and then sighs in bliss. When she looks at me expectantly, I take a tiny taste. It’s not half-bad, just a bit whooo on the alcohol. “Thanks.”
“Okay, so tell me what all’s the truth and what all’s a lie. It appears I need a check-up on my bullshit-o-meter.”
I take another drink of the tea instead, finding the burn of it going down less painful than the sour acid of the truth of what I’ve done. Eventually, though, the whiskey works its magic and loosens my tongue. I don’t know what all I say to Elena, but this time I know it’s all true.
I laugh lightly as I tell her about how bad Carter is at remembering a damn thing about art. I plead with her to understand as I explain how much I wanted to see Thomas’s collection and how special it is to someone like me. I cry when I tell her about how Carter took care of me when I had a panic attack. I blush as I share that his kisses make me warm inside, all the way down to my toes, and that when his blue eyes lock onto me, I feel like I’m beautiful.