Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 152(@300wpm)
“Do you mind if I stay here a while, kiddo?” Aunt Jane says.
I glance at Mom. Clearly, they’ve been talking about it. Mom seems tense. She’s never liked Aunt Jane staying with us. Like classic sisters, they always bother each other with petty arguments that sometimes spiral. But these seem like special circumstances.
Mom nods, basically telling me the choice is mine.
“I don’t mind,” I say.
Jane smiles. If I was more suspicious, I might say her smile seems a little broad and carefree for somebody who’s just lost the love of their life to another woman.
“Anyway, what’s new?” Aunt Jane asks. “How’s college?”
“It’s fine,” I say, remembering how that conversation went last time.
“Anything else?”
“I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.”
Jane beams. “Now we’re talking.”
“To honor Dad.”
“Whoa, buzzkill.”
“Jane,” Mom hisses.
“I’m only kidding.”
“It’s fine,” I say again, wondering if that’s normal, how blunt she’s being, but she’s been through a lot. She hasn’t slept.
“What sort of tattoo?” Jane asks.
“I’m not sure. He loved classic cars. Maybe a car with Dad on the license plate or something like that. I don’t know. Maybe it’s driving off into the sunset, representing him going to a better place.”
“Are you religious now?” Jane asks.
I shrug. “It’s just an idea.”
Mom shoots Jane a look. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Ellie.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ve got some studying to do.”
The truth is, I don’t want to be around Jane. I can’t stand her tone, but I get why she might be on edge. I don’t want to snap at her accidentally. I feel guilty for even getting annoyed with her.
Upstairs, I think about that idea. I think about Max Stellar guiding the needle over my skin, outlining the car and the sun. Then I think about us riding into the sunset together—he and I and all that tension. I wasn’t imagining it, was I? Every time I said sir, it was almost as if he liked it. It was almost as if he wanted me to keep saying it over and over and over.
I sit at my desk, looking over my notes, ignoring his number written in the top corner of my book. I still haven’t added it to my phone, as if that will somehow stop me from going through with this.
After he gave me his number, I said I could text him so he’d have mine. He said I didn’t have to, not yet. “You can do it later.” He was trembling all over unless my mind was playing tricks on me. It’s like there was an earthquake deep inside of him, thrumming, and he was going to grab me. He was going to make me his in every sense of the word. He was going to own me.
I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t think like that. It’s an insane way to think, to classify oneself as being owned, but what if I want it? Is it really so bad? Does it make me a terrible person?
I want to be his woman. I want him to get jealous. Not crazy, but jealous like he cares, like he knows no other man ever gets to touch me. Just like no other woman ever gets to touch him.
Pushing away from the desk, I breathe heavily. I’m getting lost in the most ridiculous thoughts. It’s selfish of me to be so consumed with myself when Aunt Jane is going through the worst time in her life downstairs, and all I can think about is Professor Stellar.
Quickly, I type the number into my phone. I compose a text.
Hello, Professor Stellar. It’s Ellie from English Lit, Shakespearean Sonnets. I was wondering if you are still okay with possibly tattooing me. Thanks so much, x
I remove the kiss and then send it, waiting for his reply. My heart, my heart, my heart, a voice taunts in my head, taking on the tone and tenor of a bully. My heart… It’s all I think about. How quickly it picks up sometimes, like it’s all happening again, Cillian and the rest of it, the panic attacks and the pain. Like every time anything good happens, there’s always something vicious waiting right in its shadow.
Three dots appear on the text thread—he’s typing a message—and then nothing. No message. The dots go away.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Max
I sit on the back porch with Petey in my lap. The patchy-furred dog is far friendlier than he was last night. Or maybe it’s all the medicine the vet has given him, making him quiet and affectionate.
He’s so tiny, far smaller than other Chihuahuas. It’s enough to make a man cry, holding my hand against his chest, feeling his little heart beating against my palm. It’s enough to make a man savage, thinking about other tiny hearts beating, other lives, and the future.
Now, my woman has texted me. I started writing a response but didn’t know what to say.