Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 124574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 623(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 623(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
She smiled, her clear-painted nails around her mug of chai. “No, I can’t say I have,” she replied, not unkindly. “Though, by your expression, I’m guessing you did?”
I glanced to the screen. “No, I’m thinking this is worse.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “I’m sure it’s not all that bad. And anyway, the man who gets a message from you in the middle of the night is not likely complaining.”
She walked away in her sensible shoes to her perfectly ordered desk and left me in my stiletto heels, amongst my cluttered papers and fucking train wreck of a life.
I put my head down on the papers.
A drunken text was one thing.
Maybe some regret at putting that eggplant emoji, or seeing the “sent and opened” Snapchats and the horror of not remembering what the photos were.
All of those weren’t a deep enough medium to cause enough trouble. Maybe send a naked picture that you didn’t mean to send.
Naked flesh at the end of the day wasn’t overly important. Everyone had it, and if I did say so myself, mine wasn’t exactly anything to be ashamed of.
That e-mail, on the other hand…. That was a whole different kind of naked.
A naked I hadn’t even been in front of my best friend, and she’d given me an emergency bikini wax in Mexico on spring break.
I barely even knew him.
And I spewed all of that. All of those feelings I kept carefully shoved in that junk cupboard everyone had in their mind. You know the one, where you threw every thought you didn’t know what to deal with or that was just too darn dangerous to leave floating around?
Yeah, it had all come tumbling out and went onto a screen, across thousands of miles, and landed itself in the inbox of a certain soldier with whom I shared exactly one kiss.
I didn’t even know his last name.
A quick google gave it to me.
Keltan Brooke.
He was famous. Or could have been, according to the article from nearly fifteen years ago in a New Zealand paper. He’d been a star rugby player and had been set to get into the national team, the All Blacks—ah, I get the e-mail name now—but decided to join the army.
The bing from my inbox stopped me from further Internet stalking and reverberated through my pained head, then brought with it the sound of mortification.
For once, I actually hoped it was a work e-mail.
I snapped my head up and almost knocked my coffee over in my eagerness to click out of the article and into my inbox.
Marty, our sports editor, stared at me. I wasn’t clumsy.
Or frantic.
I was collected. Calm. Not sensible, everyone knew that, but even when I was crazy, I threw people off because I did crazy things with sanity.
Now I was acting very… human.
Lucky wouldn’t know what to do with me, considering cyborg Lucy stopped existing when Keltan was involved.
A series of clicks showed me it wasn’t work.
I groaned.
Another sideways look from Marty.
I glared at him. “Don’t you have a feature to do on a jock who threw a ball to another jock?” I snapped.
His eyes went back down to his computer.
Marty was a little scared of me.
I took a deep breath.
And looked at the keyboard.
“Man up,” I whispered to myself.
So, I looked at the screen.
From: thefallbackallblack@hotmail.com
To: lagerfeldsgirl@aol.com
Subject: Re – Bad Decisions
Snow,
You know how I said they didn’t shoot deserters? How I said that I almost wished they did because I’d rather a bullet than a cage?
Fuck the cage.
And the bullets.
I was pretty darn close to risking both of those after reading that.
You seem like you’re fighting a battle much worse than the dirt box I’m in.
And I hate that, babe.
That the world was dark and cruel enough to take your friend from you.
Want to know a secret?
I’m running too.
I think we all are.
Want to know another one?
You’re wrong. I know that’s not a very sane thing to say to a woman, but I’ll be brave and risk it. I’m not stronger than you, babe. I’ve seen it, what you’ve got behind your eyes. Might not know your birthday, or your last name or your favorite color—though I’m guessing it’s black—but I know the important thing. Saw it the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re stronger than me. And most of those fellas in that club.
You’re more equipped to deal with what you’re runnin’ from than any of the other fuckers. We shoot things, lift iron and fight to trick ourselves into thinking we’re able to fight them off, whatever ghosts we’ve got.
We’re not.
I’ve lost someone too. And I run every single fucking day from the reminder of that. But I don’t run away from the fight. I run into the battle that got him lost in the first place, thinking I might find the sense of it.
But you know what? The most sense, most stillness I found?