Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
A small voice hisses inside of me that this is too much oversharing and that I should wait until he replies, at least.
But I can’t.
I press on, texting frantically.
As I got older, he became more and more paranoid. He’d hole Mom and me up for days, explaining something terrible was going to happen to us if we stepped outside. Part of me always knew it was wrong, but it’s hard, when you’re a kid… and hell, it’s hard now too. But Mom bought into it entirely. She told me Dad was right that I couldn’t trust the outside world.
I need to stop. This is way too much.
But Killian told me about his Dad, his family, and his history.
So I stayed inside. I started to get terrified of going outside. Dad taught me to drive, and do you know what he said? It was in case I needed to run away from all these dangers. All the threats that were apparently out there. And then, he took his own life once he’d given us that gift.
Tears cloud my vision. I rub them away angrily, not wanting to give into this, not wanting to succumb to the pain.
It’s all way too much, with far too much agony in my words.
I should wait for his response.
So that’s why I’m a virgin, I’ve never kissed anybody, and I ran away from the tattoo studio. I don’t know how to be the woman you want. I only know how to be me.
Something in me snaps my thumb into action. I click send, then stare at the message and how long it is.
It’s like something a crazy person would write.
More time passes.
There’s still no response.
Then a loud banging noise comes from the living room.
I rush out there, expecting to find Mom, something terrible must have happened to her. But she’s sitting up on the couch, hands clasped together in anxious prayer, body twisted around to stare at the door.
More pounding from the door.
“Hello?”
The voice cuts through me. It’s a man, and it reminds me of something Dad used to say about how trusting a bad man is the worst mistake we could make.
Trusting a bad man – even if his good guy routine was convincing – would lead us to hell.
“It’s Lionel Peterson.” He pauses a moment. “Your landlord.”
He might add the last bit since we handle everything through email and pay our rent through Mom’s bank account. I’ve never heard his voice.
“I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”
I look at Mom, a question in my eyes. I expect to see mirrored confusion on her face. But instead, there’s this other look, a bleak drop of her features.
She knows something.
I force my feet across the room, even as every impulse tells me to remain quiet, to retreat to the room.
My throat is closing up by the time I reach the door.
I wish Killian was here, with his firm body, his sure hands, and that smirk on his lips that tells me nothing would ever rattle him.
“H-hello?” I call.
“Hello.” Lionel sighs. “Is this Mia or Andrea?”
“Mia,” Mom hisses, keeping her voice low.
I get it. She doesn’t want me to tell him which one I am.
“I’ve had reports of a possible gas leak,” he goes on when I don’t answer. “I’ve got inspectors coming by to check all the apartments. I know it’s inconvenient, but you’ll need to exit the premises for a couple of hours.”
Leave this place. With Mom?
“No,” she whimpers from the couch.
We can’t do that, I almost say.
But what can I do?
“Listen, I know you two…,” he trails off, maybe thinking of the best way to phrase it.
Are freaks, I fill in the blank.
“Prefer to keep a low profile. But there’s nothing I can do about this. When a call like this comes in, I have an obligation to check it out.”
“Can you wait a second, please?”
“Sure.”
I go to Mom on the couch. “What do you think?”
She shakes her head, her eyes wide, tears beginning to fill them. “I don’t smell gas.”
“I know,” I mutter. “But I don’t think he will just leave us alone.”
“What can we do? Can’t we stay in the apartment?”
I nod, returning to the door.
“Can’t we stay in the apartment while you carry out the check?”
“Look, technically, you can,” he replies, his voice beginning to get tense. “But if there is a problem and you’re inside while something goes wrong… I’m not doing this for my health, you know. I want to keep my tenants safe.”
“Who reported this leak?” I ask.
“Another resident,” Lionel says, voice snappish. “Please.”
I return to Mom. “We can stay, but it could be dangerous.”
Her reaction provokes ugly responses in me, like making me want to snap at her for being melodramatic. This is a crazy thing to think, coming from me, the queen of melodrama, the woman whose entire life is constructed around it.