Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“It’s only me.” I enter the room with my hands up.
He doesn’t flinch. That’s progress.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” He sounds genuinely concerned.
“I couldn’t sleep either. What are we watching?”
“Shopping network. It’s the only thing on at this time of night that isn’t sucky.”
I throw myself down next to him. Anders is kind of in the middle of the couch, so he tries to scoot over a bit without being obvious, but it’s so obvious.
It’s tempting to lean into him to piss him off, but I think better of it.
Being around Anders isn’t like being around any other guy. Wanting him because of that probably makes me a cliché, but my casual charm doesn’t work on him. Every move I make around him has to be calculated, and I don’t know why I love that so much when the reason for it is so tragic.
I want to say he’s like a puzzle, but that would be even more cliché. He’s like one of those logic games where you need to be two steps ahead the whole time to defeat it.
Not that I want to defeat Anders. I just want to break down his walls so he’ll let me in. I want to be the one he leans on. Confides in.
Ignoring the tension in his body as he tries to shuffle away from me, I lift my head in the direction of the TV. “Surely, there has to be something better than this.”
“Not anything that’ll keep me awake.”
“Wait … you’re trying to stay awake? Why? Didn’t the locksmith come?” I called and organised one.
Anders glances towards his bedroom and then back at me. “There’s a new lock. I just … I haven’t been sleeping well, and there’s no point in trying when I get like this. If I force myself to stay awake, I generally get to a point where my body does all the work for me by passing out.”
My teeth dig into my bottom lip to stop me from telling him how unhealthy that is. He has to know that already.
“It’s not … is it because of me? Because of—”
“No.” He forces one of his smiles. I’m a little insulted he doesn’t realise I know when he’s faking it. “This happens sometimes. It’s got nothing to do with you. I promise. We agreed we were cool, remember?”
“Can I please look for something semi-decent if we’re not going to go to sleep?”
Anders hands over the remote as if challenging me to find something better, but he’s right. There is nothing decent on TV at two a.m.
“You should get Netflix or something,” I suggest to him.
“Why me?”
“I never get a chance to watch TV. It’d be a waste of money.”
Anders holds out his hands. “Because you’re struggling so much.”
I frown. “My father is rich. Not me. I’m on an associate’s starting salary. I’d never be able to afford this place on my income.”
He must sense he’s hit a nerve. “Sorry. I just figured …”
“This is Dad’s place. Well, technically, it’s mine, but he bought it for me. I know that should probably make me feel guilty or privileged or whatever, but it’s not like I don’t work hard.”
“I’m not saying you don’t. I … I’m sorry if I said something wrong. I thought you came from a lot of money and it’s something you don’t have to worry about.”
Dammit. I slump in defeat. “No, you’re right in a way. It’s something I don’t have to worry about. But it gets to me when people imply I’m living off my father. It happens at work, so it’s a touchy subject.”
Anders smiles. “Consider it dropped.”
“How about we rent a movie from Google Play—something actiony and brainless.”
Anders pauses briefly but nods.
And that’s how I end up on a couch in the middle of the night, watching Die Hard for the billionth time.
11
Anderson
My first reaction when I wake up on top of Brody should be to panic. My body tenses, and my brain tells me I should be freaking out, but no trigger warnings are present. Just the ever-loving need to get the fuck up.
How did this happen?
More importantly, how did I let it happen?
He’s using the armrest as a pillow, and his legs hang off the side of the couch. With my head on his chest, I’m practically curled into his side while his arm is draped around me.
Brody is as still as can be, his breathing long and laboured like he’s asleep. But when I lift my head, he’s not asleep at all. “Are you freaking out?” he whispers.
Yes. “Not as much as I thought I would be.”
“I can feel your heartbeat against my rib cage. You’re freaking out.”
“I’m not moving though. I don’t have the need to run out of here right now.” Just the want, but there’s a big difference between need and want. Anyone in therapy will tell you that.