Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
We know the basic facts. The likes and dislikes.
But we don’t know the big stuff.
He doesn’t know about Neil. Or my life before Carrie. When I was still Annie Coombs.
I don’t really know anything of his past.
I know about his mom. And that he lived with his gran in the house that he still lives in now.
But I also know there’s more from his past that I don’t know.
His eyes are that of a survivor.
He has seen things and knows things he never should’ve.
And I don’t just mean the murder of his stepfather.
I mean the reason his stepfather was murdered.
There was a reason River’s mom shot her husband that day. And something tells me that reason was River.
Or I could be way off.
But I’m not going to ask him. And he won’t ask me about my past.
It’s an unspoken agreement between us. Because neither of us wants to discuss our pasts by bringing up the other’s.
We want to leave them just there. In the past.
“Red?”
The sound of River’s voice has me turning my head.
“Baby’s room,” I call to him.
I listen to the sound of his boots against the floor as he makes his way toward me.
Tightening the last plastic fitting to the crib, I stand back to admire the mobile.
“The mobile came,” he says, entering the room. “Looks good.”
“Doesn’t it?” I smile, turning to him.
He has a box in his hands, and a small brown paper bag sits on the top of it.
“What’s in the box?” I ask.
I’m pretty sure I already know what’s in the paper bag. River has taken to bringing me fruit every week for the day the baby hits that size. This week is a large mango.
“A gift.” He crosses the room and puts the box down on the changing table.
I follow him over there, standing beside him. I stare down at the box. My heart starts to pound an erratic beat, like it always does when I’m this physically close to him.
He hands me the paper bag. I reach inside and pull out a mango.
I smile up at him. “You want to share?” I ask him, knowing what his answer will be.
His nose wrinkles up. “No. And I still can’t believe you eat the fruit babies that I bring you. It’s fucking gross, Red.”
I laugh out loud, holding the piece of fruit up. “It’s a mango. Not an actual baby. And I’m not just going to let a perfectly good piece of fruit go to waste.”
“You let the spaghetti squash go to waste last week.”
“Yeah, but that was gross.” Honestly, I only eat the fruit to wind him up. I think it’s adorable how it freaks him out. “You’re cute. You know that?” I tell him, bumping his hip with mine.
“I’m not fucking cute,” he grumbles. “Bunnies are cute. Puppies and kittens are cute. I most definitely am not.”
No. You’re beautiful. Inside and out.
“True. You’re more like a bear. But a cute, fluffy bear, one that will rip someone’s head off if they get too close to you.”
“Better. Marginally,” he mutters, frown lines marring his brow. “And are you gonna open the fucking gift anytime today?”
“Am I supposed to? You never said it was for me. You just said it was a gift.” I smile sweetly up at him.
“Smart-ass.” His eyes smile down at me. “Of course it’s for you. Now, will you just open it? Oh, and FYI, Red, it’s not edible.”
“Hilarious.” I pull open the top of the box and stare down into it.
Oh my God.
“You made this?” I ask even though I know he did. It has his artistic touch all over it.
“It’s a light fixture,” he tells me, like he needs to explain. “For the baby. But, if you don’t like it, it’s fine. I won’t be offended.”
“Not like it?” I drag my eyes from the light fixture and stare up at him. “I love it, River. So much. Thank you.”
The tips of his ears are red. That’s his tell when he’s nervous or embarrassed.
“Do you want me to put it up now?”
“Yes,” I say eagerly.
I wait while he goes and gets a screwdriver. I watch as he takes down the old hanging light fixture and then carefully gets his from the box and fits it to the wires before screwing it to the ceiling.
“Should I turn it on?” he asks.
I nod, staring up at it.
He flicks the switch on, and it comes to life. Not that it wasn’t already alive with the mix of colors. There must be forty different glass balloons, all varying sizes, hanging on thin wires from the metal fitting, where the lights gleam down on them, alighting the multiple colors. There are numerous shades of reds, greens, yellows, oranges, and blues.
It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.
He steps closer to me. “Is it okay?” he asks with an uncertainty that I’ve come to know from him.