Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Mom’s smile dies as quickly as my laughter. “Why couldn’t you tell her?”
“Because it changes how people see you, see me, see everyone. Why do you think there’s no mention of it on the internet? That’s not a coincidence. I made that happen, just like I pushed it down inside of me. There’s a reason I stopped therapy as soon as I could, as soon as they stopped making me go. It couldn’t cure me, Mom. Only… only Fiona could.”
I realize I’m sitting up, fists clenched, my whole body heaving as though my woman is here and somebody is threatening her again. There’s no way to explain the volcanic urge for possession that grips me, as if every single atom is flaring, pulsing for Fiona as if I could tear apart a roomful of armed men to keep her and our family safe.
“Felix.” Mom gasps. “How long have you known this woman? I thought you said it had been a few days.”
“It has.” I slump back. “But it doesn’t change anything. She’s the one. The one I’ve been searching for. And I can’t tell her. I can’t tell her about Dad, and I can’t tell her she’s the one for me.”
“Why not?” Mom says.
I shake my head. “Come on.”
“I mean it. It’s… it’s incredible. It’s unique. She might think it’s romantic.”
I can hear the desperation in my mothers' voice. This could have a storybook ending in her mind, where I tell Fiona how I feel, and she tells me she feels the same.
But life isn’t like that.
Life is bloody and hard and mean and cruel, and it leaves a mark. In life, a man tells a woman how he feels, after a few days and she runs, terrified by his intensity.
“Life isn’t Hollywood, Mom.”
“Texting must be a wonderful thing,” Mom says. “If it can bring two people together like this.”
“I feel like you’re not listening.”
She grins. “No more sadness, Felix. No more beating around the bush. No more self-pity. It’s time you told this Fiona the truth about everything.”
I bite down, my jaw pulsing, my temples doing the same. Part of me wants to do what Mom says and believes I can pursue this, and everything will turn out okay.
“I can’t force you,” Mom says. “But I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“I thought you’d be more surprised. I thought it would sound crazy.”
“I could never think that. You’re my son, and you want this. And she might want it too. The fact you haven’t told me to shut up yet proves that.”
I smirk. “As if I’d say that, old woman.”
She laughs. “Less of the old, please.”
“Sorry.” I hold my hands up. “The thing is, I almost want to do it. I almost want to tell her. But I’m so damn scared. That’s the truth. If I tell her and she doesn’t feel the same, what then?”
“Then you’ll know. But I can see, Felix. This is eating you alive.”
She’s right. It’s gnawing at me from the inside as if my desire is creating a hole.
I take out my cell phone and send a text.
Are you busy, mystery girl?
She texts back so adorably quickly. No, why?
I sigh, holding my thumb in place.
This could easily be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Or it could be the best.
Because I’m coming over
Tucking my phone away, I lean forward. “Sebastian, we need to turn around.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fiona
I don’t remember Rachel’s at work until I’m in her bedroom, my phone aimed at her bed where she’d normally be, a big smile on my face. I rushed in here to show her the text, to tell her that Felix is on his way right now.
Rushing into my bedroom, I look around at the mess.
My fabrics are strewn all over the floor near my workstation table. My bed is unmade, my laptop balanced on a chair from where I was binging Netflix last night. My walls are covered in posters from photoshoots, several of them peeling at the corners.
I’m not in any better shape than my room. My hair is tied up in a messy bun. I’m wearing my favorite PJs, with a hole in the hip, the elastic of my sweatpants busted, so I have to keep pulling them up.
I’ll be five minutes. I was in the neighborhood
I almost let out a yelping noise when I read the text. Five minutes? I spent longer than I thought staring down at my phone, trying to process the text, and then rushing into Rachel’s room.
Now, I quickly pull off my clothes and pull a pair of jeans on and then a hoodie. I brush my hair as best as I can. I haven’t got time for makeup or to clean my bedroom properly, so I bundle the fabrics under the desk and close the door. In the living room, I rush around, clearing away plates from breakfast.