Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“But he barely knows me,” she said quietly. “How is that love any more believable? His memory of me is as a towheaded three-year-old whose favorite food was watermelon and favorite song was ‘The Muffin Man.’ His memory of me has been frozen in time, locked on the girl who liked to be read to before bed and who loved getting raspberries blown on her belly.”
It could be a genuine love, she supposed. At least, eventually. The foundation was there; the desire was there to reconnect. He was desperate to build the relationship he’d always imagined. And even in this deepest part of her bewilderment and heartbreak, Ren knew she was also open and hungry for family. As far as fathers went, Chris seemed to be an ideal one. He was calm and measured; he took their therapy sessions very seriously. Outside of that, he was surprisingly funny and self-deprecating; that humor hid what Ren could tell was a uniquely sharp mind, and as she spent time with him every day, she grew to think maybe she got his curiosity, his drive. He was patient with her, warm and loving, and other than Edward, there was no one in Ren’s world who made her feel as cherished and important as Chris did.
“I can understand why you wonder what it all means,” Edward said carefully. “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling. But I know that I’d do anything for you. I’d sacrifice anything.”
“I’ve been talking about you in therapy with Anne, too,” she said, nodding. “How it’s confusing to be this happy when I feel shredded up inside. About whether at first my feelings for you were real or somehow tangled up in my excitement about being out in the world. About whether I should be starting a new relationship, especially something intimate and complicated, when I’ve never been with anyone romantically before.”
“Yeah?” he said, gently, without judgment. “Those seem like good questions to be asking.”
“Anne reminded me there were no rules,” she said. “I don’t have to be happy just to make sure people aren’t worrying about me, and I don’t have to be sad all the time, either, even though everything is objectively hard.” She looked at him over her shoulder and smiled. “There are beautiful things that came out of this tragedy. The way I feel about you is beautiful to me. It feels like a gift. I want to let my heart stay open, even if it’s scary to trust again.”
And she did. She trusted Edward in ways she wasn’t sure she could totally understand. He’d started calling their nightly conversations “radical transparency,” and he always said it with a laugh, which told her it was a term his own assigned therapist was giving him. But it was working. He’d answered every one of her questions. She knew about his past, and she also knew that he was doing everything he could to figure out a new plan for his future. He’d been given an open calendar to reschedule his internship interview, but his thoughts on what he would do with a law degree were starting to change. He’d realized he wanted to help kids like himself. He knew it wouldn’t pay as well, but for the first time in his life, that didn’t seem to matter.
She shook her hair down her back, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Edward gathered her ponytail in his hand and bent to kiss her neck again. “You’re really sure?”
“I am. I’ve done some research and can donate my hair to an organization called Locks of Love.”
He audibly winced at the first cut, but the immediate weight lifted—actually and figuratively—made tears of relief spring to her eyes. In tiny snips, Edward carefully and quietly worked until she was free, and he was left holding the long castoffs in his hand.
He passed the cut ponytail to her, and she stared down at it. It was thick, and at least a foot and a half of soft, blond hair. She ran her fingers through it.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Amazing.” She laughed, and then reached up to cup the back of her neck. “Cold.”
He ruffled her haircut from behind; it fell a few inches above her shoulders. “I don’t want to declare this too early,” he said, picking a stray hair off her shoulder, “but of the single haircut I’ve ever given, this might be the best.”
She laughed, turning to face him, and reached beside him for the other objects in the bag. “And now,” she said, looking down at the box, “looks like I’m going ‘Downtown Brown.’”
He frowned at the box. “No.”
“Yes.”
He flopped back onto the mattress, but he was smiling. They were desperate to get outside, and there was only one way that was going to happen.
Their plan was to duck out in the late morning, during her father’s scheduled press conference in front of the hotel, when every one of the scores of reporters was expected to be congregated at the fountains outside.