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)
“What?”
A tear drops down my cheeks and his frown is so big and thick that I could settle my thumb in that groove. “You’ve always hated me, since the beginning. Because of who I am, who my parents are, how I don’t fit into your sparkly and lavish lifestyle. How Lucas could do so much better than me, a servant girl. And you know what, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. Because when he asked me to make a commitment to him, I felt suffocated.”
There. It’s out there.
I told him.
My secret.
And what an odd choice for a confidant.
The guy who’s always hated me.
But now that I have said it out loud, I can’t stop. “I felt trapped. I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. Like I couldn’t breathe, and how stupid is that, right? How crazy and insane to feel that way. When I love him so much. When he’s the most amazing guy I’ve ever met. So loyal and loving and God, I know how lucky I am. I know that. All my girlfriends at school tell me. They tell me that Lucas is the best because their boyfriends are all so selfish and inconsiderate and disloyal and…”
“And what?” he prods lowly, roughly.
I blink a couple of times to clear my vision, dislodging a thick drop of tear. “Like you.”
He watches it drip down.
Making its way past my flushed cheeks, the side of my parted mouth, clinging to my jaw for half a second. Before it plops.
Down on his thumb.
I flinch when that happens.
When he catches my tear with the pad of his thick digit.
And I realize that he’s let my wrist go and not only does he catch my tear with the same hand that he was using to grip mine, he’s also wiping the wetness off my cheek with those same fingers.
“Like me,” he rasps.
My heart is beating, drumming, flapping its wings inside my chest as if it were a bird.
And standing still is such a struggle that before I can think about it, my newly-freed hand finds his t-shirt and grips it tightly.
“Yes,” I whisper, my cheek tingling where he’s touching me. “They’re all jerks like you are.”
“Like I am.”
“Like you, they can’t be trusted.”
“No.”
“They’re all assholes.”
“They are.”
“And dangerous.”
His eyes appear liquid then. “Like a bandit.”
My winged heart skips a beat and I can’t help but whisper, “That’s what I call it.”
“Call what?”
“My diary.”
“What?”
Twisting his t-shirt, I reply, “I call it Bandit now.”
His lips part and a long breath escapes, misty and warm. “Why?”
“Because I was trying to turn something bad in my life into something good,” I tell him, my neck craned up, my eyes flicking over his downturned face. “Reform it, if you will. Because every time I thought about you, I got so angry. I got so furious and enraged. And it was so exhausting. I didn’t want to feel that anymore. I didn’t want to be sick with hate. So I named the most precious thing in the world to me after you.”
“You did.”
“Yes. Turning something bad into something good. I read that in a book.”
And as soon as I did, it reminded me of him. So I got myself a new diary. The one whose color matched the color of his eyes. Dark brown with red hues.
The only non-pink thing in my room.
“Did it help?” he asks, his thumb on my jaw now, only millimeters away from my lips.
“Not yet.”
“It’s not going to.”
“It might. I haven’t lost hope.”
“You should.”
I don’t know what’s happening.
But everything feels so… lazy and heavy and lethargic and hot.
His breaths. My breaths.
His eyes. My skin.
His thumb on my cheek, so close to my parted mouth now.
My knuckles almost caressing his hard, ridged abdomen.
“Sixteen, huh,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
He runs his gaze all over my face, which I know must be all flushed. “You still too mature for your age?”
My breath hitches.
And I want to hide my face now.
I want to clench my eyes shut and burrow my nose in his massive chest.
Because he’s bringing up that long ago conversation.
The embarrassing and one-sided conversation I had with him back when I was naive and stupid and thought that I wanted to be his friend. Before he taught me that all rumors about him are true and that I should believe them and not what my heart was telling me.
“Yes,” I reply.
His thumb inches closer to my mouth. “But you can see why we can’t be friends now though, can’t you?”
“Because we make each other hatesick.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you,” I ask, my lips trembling, “give me that anklet?”
My question makes him frown. “What?”
Swallowing, I bring my other hand forward, the one that was up until now gripping the bedpost behind me, and clutch his t-shirt. Because I need something sturdier.
To hold on to.
Something more grounding and solid.
Something like him in this moment.