Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
And that night of the fire . . . did he fail? He’d always thought yes: Yes, I let myself get overwhelmed, I let the screws tighten until my exterior cracked. In reality, though, he was still here. He’d come back. The people he loved were safe. Time marched on, and he would do it all over again, even knowing the outcome. He’d run into the fire knowing the anxiety would crush him afterward, and maybe . . . maybe Wexler needed some of that. Fear. Fear of failing. Fear of weaknesses. Didn’t that only make being strong more rewarding?
The screen of his computer faded to black from inactivity, and Julian surged to his feet, noting the time on the clock. Seven forty in the morning. He would sleep until noon, shower until ten after twelve . . .
Why?
Why schedule himself so ruthlessly? It didn’t seem as necessary as it had before. Nothing seemed necessary, except for . . .
His focus drifted, and he found himself walking down the front steps of the house. He moved without conscious thought, knowing on some level he was moving toward the garden, but not being really sure why. Not until he stood in front of it.
The absolute . . . masterpiece of it.
The air was sucked straight out of his lungs.
She’d finished the garden.
It was a riot of color, just like her. It was wild and joyful and without structure, but, standing back as he was, it made sense. Blooms filled spaces and locked together like joints. They reached for the sky in some spots, crawling on the ground in others, creating a pattern that he hadn’t been able to detect until now. When it was a finished work.
The journey hadn’t been pretty, but the result was fucking spectacular.
Like this garden, she was chaos. But she was good, and he’d known this. He’d reached for her with both hands and asked to keep her, mayhem and all—but he hadn’t accepted his own flaws yet. He’d recognized hers as beautiful while believing his were still hideous, and that’s where he’d gone wrong.
He hadn’t been fully right, fully ready for her. Not when he couldn’t accept his own imperfections . . . and realize those imperfections were what made victory worthwhile.
And she was the victory. Hallie.
Her name in his head tore away that final layer of numbness, and, as he’d known it would, the panic ripped through him like a knife. The sound of her voice begging him not to leave, the soft but persistent pull of her hands on his elbow. The letter. The words from her letter.
The kind of person who wants to be better and sees their own faults is someone I want to spend time with. They’ll complement mine if we want it bad enough.
Not really seeing the ground in front of him, he lurched toward the house. And then he started to run. Car keys. He just needed to get his car keys. Christ, he needed to see her now.
I’m sorry I lied to you. I hope I haven’t ruined everything, because while I thought I was in love with high school Julian, I didn’t know him. I know the man, though. And now I understand the difference between love and infatuation. I’ve felt both for you, fifteen years apart. Please forgive me. I’m trying to change.
They didn’t even talk about her letter.
She’d had a crush on him in high school? He wanted every detail. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to laugh about it with her in her magical little garden and make up for being a stupid teenager and not knowing her and loving her for fifteen years. Where the fuck had his head been for fifteen years?
His mind was wide open now, free of the imprisonment of minutes and hours. They were nothing if he didn’t spend them with her, that’s all he knew.
Natalie emerged from her bedroom as he ran by, eye mask pushed up on her forehead. “Julian. You’re out.”
“Where are my keys?” He pointed at the console table that ran between the living room and the kitchen. If he didn’t see a Hallie Smile immediately, he was going to split down the fucking middle. “They were right here.”
“Uh, they were there. Now they’re in my purse. I returned my rental, and I’ve been driving your car for weeks.”
“Weeks.” The clamp around his windpipe tightened. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been writing nonstop for two and a half weeks. You showered once or twice. Ate a sandwich every once in a while. Slept here and there. I stayed out of your way so I didn’t interrupt your”—air quotes—“‘process.’ But I’m not handing over the keys until you clean yourself up. I believe the scientific term for your condition is ‘nasty.’”
Julian had only half heard everything Natalie said after “two and a half weeks.” Two and a half weeks? No. Not again. Please tell me I didn’t do this again. There were foggy memories of leaving the office, falling numbly into bed, watching through the grit in his eyes as his hands prepared food, words appearing on the screen. It was a blur, but he couldn’t possibly have been away from Hallie that long.