Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“He said that he’d let you go,” I tell him. “If I agreed to his… conditions.”
He scoffs, anger simmering in his eyes. “I figured that. I figured he’d pull something like that. Fucking piece of shit.” Then, “So even if Leah hadn’t called, I was headed to your house anyway. To see your father.”
“To give him the file and tell him to back off.”
“Yes.”
“How did you get it?”
“Reed.” When I frown, he explains, “I called him right after your dad’s birthday party. I knew that even if you stood up to him, he wouldn’t take it sitting down. So I wanted a way to permanently shut him down. Something to keep him in line for now and always.” Breathing sharply, he adds, “I also took care of Helen.”
“How?”
His jaw is rock hard for a second as if in distaste. “I told her if she opened her mouth again, I’ll open mine too. And if I do, then it’s going to hurt her far worse than it ever did me. Or you. Because I’m the man she’s been trying to fucking sleep with for the past year.”
“What?”
“She’s not the only one who knows how to play dirty. Especially when the thing that she’s trying to fuck with is the only thing I care about.” I swallow at his words, and he continues, “So she’s going to sit down and keep her mouth shut. Again, for now and always.”
I fist my hands.
For so many reasons.
The fact that he gauged the danger even before I did. The fact that he protected me from it, found a solution for it.
Like a thorn.
My thorn.
But he pricked me too, didn’t he?
He hurt me. He lied to me. He tortured me for three weeks.
I notice him beginning to say something, but I get there first and ask, “What is that?”
I’m not ready to hear his apologies though. I’m not ready to let him off the hook yet. So I point to the spot on the wall by the door but he doesn’t even look at it as he replies, “A hole.”
“Why’s there a hole in your wall?”
“Because I punched it.”
“Why?”
He watches me a beat, his eyes penetrating and so blue. “Because I was angry. Because I made you cry. In my office that day. Because the house felt empty when I came back after. Emptier than usual and because I knew that was how it would always feel. For the rest of my life.”
Because he pushed me away.
He gave me up himself.
Something presses in my throat, something prickly but I ignore it and say, “So you missed me.”
His jaw moves back and forth as he watches me for a second before answering, in a very guttural voice, “Yeah, I missed you. I really fucking missed you.”
At his frank, raw words, that thing in my throat grows but I tell myself to be strong. I tell myself to hold on.
Not yet.
“It’s your own fault,” I say.
Something about my fierce words makes him throw a lopsided, self-effacing smile. “I know.”
“Don’t expect any sympathy from me,” I add just to drive my point home.
“No. Not in a million years.”
I clench my teeth at his easy acceptance, his eagerness to take my anger. “I…”
I’m not sure what I was going to say because something occurs to me.
I remember something from the other night, the night I made graffiti on his truck – which is still there by the way. He hasn’t even washed it off yet and just like the fact that he punched a hole in the wall because he missed me, I’m not letting that graffiti thing affect me either.
Instead, I spin around and make a beeline to his bedroom, leaving him to follow me.
Which he does.
As soon as I reach his bedroom, my heart starts beating so loudly, so roaringly that I think it will never stop. That my heart will go on beating even after I’m dead.
On buzzing legs, I walk up to the wall – the bare wall I was trying to paint for him – and press my hand on it. “Did you paint it?”
“Yeah,” he replies from behind me.
When I left, the wall was half gray and half powder blue. Not to mention, there was a half-made cherry blossom tree that I was in the process of making.
For him.
I picked the cherry blossom because it indicates new beginnings.
New joys. New dreams.
Now the wall is all blue. The cherry blossom is as I left it though.
And it’s as if he can hear my thoughts, he explains, “I couldn’t…” I spin around at his voice and he continues, “I didn’t know how to do what you do. So I left the cherry blossom alone.”
“What do I do?”
“Make everything rosy and colorful.” His eyes bore into mine. “Like you.”
God.
I hate him. I hate him so much.
Because no matter what, no matter how much he hurts me, I can’t stop loving him.