Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
There are a thousand different emotions in them and fuck everything else.
Fuck the world.
I have to put my other hand on his chest. I have to get even closer to him.
I have to soothe him, put him at ease about something that I don’t even understand. All I know is that he’s burning, and I have to save him.
“I’m fine,” I whisper loud enough so that only he can hear me, so that he thinks we’re in a safe bubble and not part of this world or whatever it is that’s happening to him. “Nothing happened, I promise. You can see for yourself. I’m really fine. It’s okay, Stellan. You can—”
“What the fuck’s happening?”
I snatch my hands back and move away as the third lashing voice enters the scene. I don’t have to look to know who it is. It’s Coach Thorne and he looks angry. At which point I also realize that there’s a crowd gathered around us. Mostly they’re all on the bus, crowded around the windows as they witness what’s happening.
And I take a few more steps back.
And two things happen at once: My back collides with Shepard’s chest and he takes the opportunity to wrap his arm around me and Jesus, pin my spine to his chest. As if staking his claim.
In front of his twin brother.
And second, his brother absolutely notices it, his eyes glancing down to Shepard’s arm around my chest, his fingers curled over my shoulder. And his stance gets wider, that chaos in his eyes getting crazier. Although right now the dominating emotion happens to be anger.
It happens to be retribution and mayhem.
Then Shepard speaks and I think all hell is going to break loose. “Stellan here thinks that I’m not doing my job well.”
This is addressed to Conrad, but I’m watching Stellan getting this close to losing it. I wish he’d look at me instead of Shepard’s arm on me.
Conrad speaks. “Shepard, on the bus. Right now.” Then, to Stellan, “You and me, we need to talk.”
No one moves for the next few seconds.
Which prompts Conrad to repeat his command to Shepard and thankfully move his arm from around me. I breathe out a sigh of relief as Stellan looks into my eyes. I give him a shaky smile, just to reassure him that I’m fine. That there’s no need for this, but he grits his jaw before commanding, “Go.”
Swallowing, I nod and follow Shepard into the bus.
I want to look out so badly. So fucking badly and see what Conrad and Stellan are talking about, but I don’t dare move my eyes away from my feet. I hold myself tightly too, lest I break down and run back to him to give him the biggest and tightest hug he’s ever gotten in his life.
And then climb his body and kiss him and kiss him until the end of time.
I think by the time I reach my seat—Shepard has gotten waylaid somewhere to chat with a couple of his teammates—I have gotten my urges under control. But then I see a simple, unassuming white gift bag on my seat with a rose peeking out of it and I lose it.
A tear falls down my cheek as I pick it up with trembling hands. My knees give out and I plop down on my seat when I stick my hand inside and feel what it is.
My white dress.
The one he tore.
I pull it out and notice that the bodice is mended. It’s as good as new. Did he… Did he sew the dress for me? I clutch the rose to my chest as I also discover a note inside it.
And it says,
Sorry. For the dress and for setting your favorite flower on fire.
Chapter 10
The Wildfire Thorn
Today is going to be a bad day.
I knew that as soon as I woke up.
I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, but when I did manage to find some, I saw my mother in my dreams. Not the first time and probably won’t be the last either. I usually don’t remember any specifics of dreams like this except her face. She looks like how she always looked: tired but loving, her blonde hair fluttering around her face, her blue eyes looking at each of us with endless patience even though she should’ve lost it a long time ago.
And in the midst of all that, there was a bruise on the side of her head.
She would have a lot of them from what I remember. But she always had excuses for them too. Excuses that no five-year-old would ever doubt, no matter how transparent they seemed.
I did, though.
I always did.
Because I knew the truth. It’s a burden to know it, isn’t it? The one who knows the truth is always the one whose shoulders are the heaviest.