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)
“So I was taking care of it myself,” I finish.
And I was.
I am.
I’ve read books. I’ve done research. That’s how I know what a grounding object is. I know all the breathing exercises and tips to recognizing your triggers. Staying away from those triggers. Distancing yourself from them.
Which is why again, today is not a good day.
Besides I didn’t think I deserved any help. Not after what I am.
“Do you call that taking care of it?” Conrad asks after a while. “What happened out there?”
I stiffen in my seat. “That was different.”
He watches me with shrewd eyes. “Are you saying that you didn’t want to beat the shit out of your twin brother?” Then, “Because I’ve seen you with him. I know he tests your patience. He tests everybody’s patience. It was nothing different. But somehow you were. Somehow I’ve never seen you this close to breaking.”
My fists clench. “He’s not doing it right.”
“Doing what right?”
“Taking care of her.”
It’s true, isn’t it?
What the fuck was he doing last night when she needed his help? Why the fuck was he flirting with those girls when he should’ve been there for her? Why the fuck was he flirting in the first place when he has a fucking fiancée?
How in the world can he look at someone else when he has her to look at?
How in the fucking world does he look away from her in the first place?
How the fuck is he engaged to her in the first place?
When I asked him to take care of her, I didn’t mean fucking marry her. I didn’t mean that he fucking make her his wife.
His…
I tighten my fists. Just the thought makes me want to get up, grab her from him, and fucking run away somewhere. I wouldn’t even waste time beating him up as long as I have her with me.
As long as I get to protect her.
Cherish her, fucking worship her like he should be doing right now.
Rather than letting her almost get attacked by other men and bump her fucking head on the door.
I mean, fucking Christ.
He should be beside her, at all times.
He should be holding her hand, steering her away from danger. He should be laying out fucking flowers and stars and clouds in her path. Actually, no, he should be carrying her everywhere she goes because there’s a chance she might slip on a cloud or get her heel caught up in the petals of a flower.
“So then”—Conrad shifts in the chair—“are you saying that you know how to take care of her?”
“No,” I say instantly.
Because I can’t give her what she wants from me: love. Even if I set aside the fact that I have this giant fucking beast inside of me that demands my absolute control every second of every day, I wouldn’t even know how to love her.
I never learned.
In fact, I’ve spent my entire life unlearning any emotions, burying them deep inside of me. Besides, she said that I didn’t know how to care for her the right way and she’s right. Even if she’s forgotten her anger at me, I haven’t. I remember.
“You know they’re engaged, don’t you? You know that means they’re going to get married.” Then, leaning forward, “You know that I told you that you should get away. Do you remember that?”
I do.
In one of my weakest moments, I confessed my feelings to Conrad. He himself was going through a crisis of his own—relating to Wyn, his now fiancée—and I ended up telling him about my crisis to make him feel better. He told me to get away from them. To get away from all the misery that was in store for me.
Of course I didn’t.
I couldn’t have, now that I think about it.
Even if there was a slightest chance to see her, to be near her, I would’ve taken it.
“She loves me,” I tell him.
“What?” he bites out.
“I’m fixing it.”
“You’re fixing it.”
“Yes.”
He shifts in his seat again. “Explain to me one more time what you mean by that.”
“It means”—I take a deep breath—“she’ll marry Shepard. Because Shepard is the right guy for her. They both suit each other.”
You’d think that after saying this same set of words so many times, I’d be more used to it, and it wouldn’t taste bitter. You’d think that days after that fucking engagement, I wouldn’t want to simultaneously obliterate my twin and vomit my guts out at the thought of them tied together for the rest of their lives.
But I do.
These words taste bitter.
In fact, after days of watching them together, days of watching her wear his ring, they taste like poison now.
Poison that burns, that gives third degree burns.
The only thing, the only fucking thing, that gives me relief right now, as hollow as it might be, is the fact that I have that ring in my pocket. It’s sitting heavy and hot, but at least it’s not on her finger.