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)
He goes down on his knees.
I look down at him in confusion and ask, “What are you—”
“You skipped a step,” he tells me, looking up and into my eyes.
“What?”
“You didn’t eat. From sunrise to moonrise.”
“Yeah but that’s—”
“But you’re not my wife.”
My heart thuds. “Oh. That… Girls can still do it for—”
“Yet.”
I freeze. “I-I’m sorry?”
He stares at me for a few moments, his eyes glittering and molten, his jaw ticking.
God, it’s making my heart pound.
It’s making my body shiver.
And when he starts speaking, I have to hold on to something—him—to keep my balance. Because I wasn’t expecting him to say the things he’s saying.
“I… I’ll begin by saying that I’m not perfect.” He scoffs. “I mean, my name and the word perfect don’t even belong in the same sentence. I don’t even think I’m a work in progress. I think I’m just… work. A fuck ton of work. A lot of people at this age have already been made while I’m still learning to be unmade. From my previous life. I’m learning to forget things. I’m learning. And for a man who thrived on control, who lived and breathed by it, who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, it’s a very strange thing to do. To learn.”
He is.
Learning I mean.
Every single day.
Learning to let go. Learning to be free.
Learning to live.
In both small ways and big ways. In ways like going out with his friends. He protests, sure. But when I push him, he does give in. He agreed to be one of Riot’s groomsmen at his wedding with Meadow; I was one of the bridesmaids and it was so beautiful, watching our friends get married. He even went tux shopping with Coach Thorne for his upcoming wedding with Wyn; they’re getting married next summer.
He tells me things about himself. Without asking, without prompting. Without making it feel like I’m banging my head against the wall. Like the fact he likes mustard but hates mayo. His favorite color is blue. He likes the beach but hates anything cold. Like sometimes when he wakes up in the middle of the night, it’s because he has nightmares about his mother.
On those nights he tells me about her. He tells me that when he was little and would hear his mom cry from her bedroom, he’d go to put his arms around her and comfort her. He’d give her flowers on days she’d walk around limping.
So, on those nights, I hug him tighter. On those mornings after, I hug the rose that he gives me tighter too. Because he still does it; he still gives me roses every day.
I mean is it any wonder that I love this man?
Is it any wonder that I forget the world when he’s around me?
That I’m so, so proud of him for putting himself out there, for wanting a new life, for taking steps to live in a new way.
He even goes to therapy. Initially he didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. But since he’d made me a promise that he’d build his life around me, he went despite his reluctance. And while I’d never push him to do anything that he didn’t like, I’m glad he persisted. Because I know it helps him. It eases him—even if a little bit—in his moments of crisis. In moments when he can’t remember anything else except his old life.
And there are days like that too.
When he forgets he’s free.
When he forgets his past doesn’t have a hold on him.
That he isn’t like his past.
On those days—bad days—I try to be there for him as much as I can. I try to soothe him, comfort him. I even argue with him and fight with him. To show him that I can handle him. To show him that I’m not afraid of him or his demons.
So yeah, he’s learning.
And I’m more in love with him now than I was six months ago.
“So really,” he continues, his eyes flashing and liquid. “I have no right to do this. I shouldn’t be doing it. But the thing is, Dora, when it comes to you, I’ve always been selfish. And I wish I could say that I’ll work on that. I wish I could say that I’ll fix this flaw in me. But I promised to tell you the truth. I promised to not lie to you or keep secrets from you so the truth is I can’t. I can’t work on it. It’s impossible for me to work on it. In fact, I’m only going to get more selfish as the times passes. I’m only going to get even more possessive. So much so that maybe one day, I’ll really cross that line. That one line and kill every guy who looks at you. Maybe one day I’ll really strangle your father when I see him because of all the crimes he’s committed against you, and I’ll do the same to your mother as well because she still looks at you the wrong way.”