Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
To this beautiful lake and the kind of woods I actually like, all peaceful and quiet.
“Used to come here a lot,” he says. “Back when…”
He stops and clenches his jaw and I know.
What he’s trying to say.
So I finish the sentence for him. “Back when your dad used to be mean to you?”
He throws me a short nod and I lean in to give him a peck on his lips.
As kind of a reward for telling me.
I already know that it’s not easy for him, to talk about things. When you’ve kept so many secrets all your life — his dad’s abuse, his crush on me and God knows how many other things — it’s not easy to share.
But I’m glad he’s trying.
“When I was little,” he says, his eyes carrying a faraway look, “I couldn’t run away. I’d be trapped wherever he chose to put me. In my room, in a closet. In the basement. But then I grew up. I could… get out of things, places. Windows. So I’d run away. I’d go to,” he swallows, “Lucas’s house sometimes. Sometimes I’d steal my dad’s cars and drive around. One day, I found this place and it was so… peaceful. So pretty. I didn’t wanna leave.”
If I blink, I know my tears would fall.
I know they’re sitting right there, on the edge.
So I don’t.
I don’t want to cry in front of him right now. I don’t want to make it about me, make it so that he has to console me. Because I know he would.
Although I do say, “You’re the most amazing guy I’ve ever met.”
“What?”
I lean closer to him. “The most amazing and wonderful and strong guy I’ve ever met, Reign Marcus Davidson.”
He studies me for a few moments before saying, “And you’re the most dramatic, girly and fucking emo girl I’ve ever met, Echo Ann Adler.”
I shake my head and insist, “I know you don’t like to hear that but you are. You’re so strong, Reign. You persevered. Also known as you persisted; you carried on; you hung in there; you hammered away; you were tenacious and look at you now.”
“Look at me what?”
“You live in New York,” I say in a duh tone. “You’re in college. You have a soccer scholarship. You’re going to be drafted next year. You’re going to be such an amazing player. You are such an amazing player, Reign. So amazing that one day you’ll go to the European league. You —”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I have all the faith in you. You’re going to be —”
“I’m not entering the draft.”
I wait for him to say something more, add to what he just so casually threw out there.
But when he doesn’t, I go, “What?”
While I’m freaking out over here, he again very casually shrugs. “I’m not interested in getting picked.”
“How can you not be interested in getting picked?”
“Because I’m not,” he says, still all relaxed. “Because I don’t wanna play soccer.”
“Are you insane?” I fist his hair. “What are you talking about? You want to play soccer. You’re so good at soccer.”
I think by the time I finish my voice is so loud that it’s echoing all through the woods. And the sigh he makes in response is just as loud.
And impatient.
“No, I don’t.”
“But —”
“I knew,” he begins with a voice that’s tight now, hard, “my dad wouldn’t have paid for my education, not that I cared about one, but still. He would’ve made up some excuse, put it on me to save face so I knew that it was the only way I could’ve gotten out of town. The only way to go to the same college as my best friend. I never had any plans of playing soccer.”
“But you…” my own voice small and unsure, “you love soccer.”
Scoffing, he continues, “No, I fucking don’t. I hate soccer. Always have, always will. It’s yet another thing that my father forced me to do because my brother was so good at it. Yet another way to control me, mold me into something that I’m not.”
My tears threaten to fall again.
And this time it’s harder to make them stop because a lump grows in my throat as well. Making me ache and ache for him.
Ache for this broken boy.
This broken rebellious bad boy.
I wish I could say something to him. I wish I could somehow make whatever he went through go away. Go back in time and erase all the hurt, all the damage done to him by his father. By all the people who misunderstood him.
By me.
What was I thinking? Why didn’t I see it before?
Why didn’t I look beyond the surface, beyond his meanness and cruelty, and see who he is underneath?
Why did I let him push me toward his best friend?
“I’m… I… I hate this,” I say finally, such inadequate words. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this for you. I —”