Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I would have done it a thousand times over and slain all the demons in the world just to give him those few hours of rest he needed so badly. I slept beside him and never touched him, but it was like I could still feel his heart pounding as if we were pressed up against each other. Maybe my heart just pounded enough for both of ours. I’ve held my heart and all my desires in check for so long, and now they’re not checked at all. Now is a dangerous time. A time when everything seems possible even though I know it’s not true.
“Did I snore?”
Like a rusty chainsaw for most of the night. “Not that I heard.”
He puts both hands up and scrubs them down his face before swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “I had better go.”
Please don’t. Not yet. I’m not ready for this to be over. “Okay. But it’s really early. Will you stay for a cup of coffee first?”
“Uhh, you want me to have coffee? When I just woke up and have no toothbrush or—”
“I can get you one. And a shower, if you want.”
“No, Remi, I can’t borrow your dad’s clothes again, and you’ve already given me deodorant that I still haven’t replaced. But I’m going to. I promise.”
“Don’t worry about that. My dad buys in bulk when something goes on sale, then gets sick of the scent. He wasn’t going to use it. I have an extra toothbrush, and you can still have a shower.” I lean in and smell him, and he backs up, alarmed. “Nope. No weird smells. I think you pass muster.” No weird smells at all. He just smells like him. Like sleep and cedar and the man of my freaking dreams.
Last night, Van gave me something no one else has had from him. He probably thinks it’s a burden, but I think it’s a gift, and I want to carry some of that for him. My heart is aching and hurting for him. I don’t know what I can do, but maybe just listening helped. It wasn’t just my fantasy of spending a night with Van that made me let him sleep. It was because he needed it. And I wanted to watch over him. I know no one can save someone else, but I’d like to help, just a little if I can.
I get out of bed, looking as rumpled as he does. Except I didn’t sleep, so I’m probably a little bleary too. “I’ll get you a toothbrush.”
In the bathroom, I brush my own teeth and finger comb my hair, sticking it up into a messy bun. Then, I wash my face and call myself good to go. My sundress, unfortunately, is creased into horrible patterns, squashed on one side, and wrinkled beyond repair, but I do apply fresh pit stick, then consider doing more. Van could roll into this house covered in mud and smelling like the bottom of a trash can, and I’d still be enthralled, but I don’t hold myself to the same standard.
I sweep back into the bedroom. Van is standing by my bookshelf, surveying my collection, but there’s something wrong with his face. Something is very, very wrong. His jaw is hard, and there’s an expression on his face that’s impossible to pick apart, but it looks like disbelief. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and there are goosebumps on my arm. My stomach flops around and falls as I step forward very, very carefully.
“What’s wrong?” I mean, besides the obvious. Because I don’t think this is about what he told me last night.
Guilt burns in his eyes, a softer shade of brown now. It’s not light out, but it’s also not dark. I flicked the light on before I left. However, it’s not the light burning in those depths. It’s something—
I glance at the bookshelf. Then at Van. Then back at the shelf. He looks there, too, and I follow his gaze this time.
My heart doesn’t just ache or shiver or vibrate or pulse. It stops completely.
Holy. Fuck. Please. Please. No.
It’s the kind of no that a person truly means. One of those please, no, I’ll do anything, anything, I’ll be good for the rest of my life, and I’ll never swear again or think a horrible thought about anyone ever kind of please, no.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers guiltily. “I didn’t mean to…it just had a nice cover. The mermaid and the one with the cat. They were just sitting there, and I didn’t mean to pick them up. I just wanted to look.”
My journals. He found my journals from high school, and it’s clear he read them. Even if he just flipped through them, it would be enough. So. Freaking. Clear. I only started keeping a journal when I was fifteen. After a few years, I switched to simple, plain notebooks because they were easy to write in and cheap. I needed cheap. Those first two—the mermaid and the cat ones—were gifts from my parents. Yes, they’re very pretty, but they’re also filled with all my darkest secrets, including a few THOUSAND times where I confessed my undying love for Sullivan Carlson.