Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
"I did when we were younger. Maybe even a few months ago. But not anymore."
"You were right. I was a spoiled rich boy. I endured a lot for my family, because it was my duty, but only the normal things."
"Losing both your parents before you turn nineteen isn't normal."
"No. I was unlucky. But I had plenty of advantages. I didn't think about them. I didn't think about how hard the world was for women until I had a sister. I know it's a cliché, a man caring about the plight of women when he has a daughter, but it's true. She's not my daughter, but she's—"
"She changed things for you?"
He nods. "It's not the same as death, as grief, but it's similar. All of a sudden, you see a new side of the world. One that was hidden to you before. You have no idea how you ever missed it. How you lived without this knowledge. How anyone does. You try to unsee it, sometimes, but you can't. You go back to something old, something you used to love, and it's the same, because you're not the same."
"Your mother?"
"No. I was too young. But my father. Bash… that was different. He was young and vibrant and…" He looks to his purple drink. "It was my failure this time. Not protecting my younger brother."
He said that before.
He's saying it again.
But wasn't it an accident?
What could Simon have done? Forced his brothers to take classes on defensive driving? Installed better seat belts or airbags?
Whatever people do to make cars safe.
I've lived in the city my entire life.
I don't know how to drive a car, much less what constitutes safe driving.
"He turned everything to color. Without him, the world was grey again. For months. Even now"—his eyes flit to me—"there are things I see in color. In saturated shades. But it's different. I'm aware of the change in the air."
That's what I do.
I turn the world from black-and-white to color.
Because he likes me.
Or maybe—
Maybe Simon Pierce is in love with me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
VANESSA
Again, my thoughts grind to a halt.
Again, only one thought flashes through my brain.
Only this time, it isn't carnal. It isn't images of his cock inside me.
It's that four-letter word in brilliant neon.
Love. Love. Love.
Neither one of us is good at it.
Neither one of us is saying it.
I'm not sure what to say, how to explain the feelings racing through my veins.
So I kiss him.
For a split second, he's still. Then he kisses back with hunger and need.
Asking for something deep inside my soul.
Offering something deep inside his.
When I pull back, I'm dizzy. I don't know what to say about love. I don't know what to say about my past.
But I need to say something about this.
"I'm sorry about your brother. Really, Simon. I wish I could do more than say I'm sorry. I wish I could do something to make it better."
His eyes fix on mine.
I don't know what I'd do. What there is to do. But I know I want to sit with him and listen and help him shoulder his pain.
And let him shoulder mine.
I'm capable.
I am.
"If you ever want to talk," I say. "I haven't been through that, but I can sit and listen. And say I'm sorry again."
"Thank you." He takes a long sip of his drink.
I don't know what to say, so I say, "You're welcome."
He sets his glass on the counter. "You're off somewhere."
I need to tell someone.
To tell him.
"It isn't you, Simon," I say. "My instinct to assume the worst. My obsession with the implications of fiction. My problems with intimacy. It's me."
His eyes meet mine.
"You probably know my history. My mom isn't private. And with my job, people assume. But I don't talk about it. Even with Lee."
"You don't have to talk about it."
"I know." I suck a breath through my teeth. I want to share things with him. So he understands. So I'm not fighting myself all the time.
"Whatever you want to share."
I finish my drink. I just need to start. To say it. "My father was abusive."
His eyes stay glued to mine.
"He never hurt me. Not physically. My mom swore he wouldn't, but I'm not sure she believed it. I didn't."
He waits.
"It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't been through it. People think it's easy to escape. They think survivors are stupid for staying. Can't they see the signs? Can't they just… leave? But they don't see the other times. My father was violent and angry. But he was charming too. Loving. Sweet. Funny. He treated me like a princess. He tucked me in every night. Read from my favorite fairy tale. And he looked at my mom like she was the light in his life. When things were good, they were good. But when he was angry…"
He offers his hand.