Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
As soon as I make it across the fluffy, olive-colored rug and over to his bed, I grab his wrist and squeeze his hand. I force myself to look at his still face and smile as if he’s really here.
“Hi, C. How’s it going?”
I imagine him answering, because otherwise having a conversation with myself is just too weird. I kiss him on the cheek and sit in the beige wing-backed chair I’ve come to think of as mine.
“When I called the other day, Nanette told me you opened your eyes for a few minutes. I can’t believe I missed that! I had a test that day. You’ll be glad to know I passed.” The machines around him hum their response, and for a second, I get tripped up. It’s been two months since the night of the crash, but sometimes it’s still too strange to see Cross like this.
“So...what else is there? Suri and Adam might be having problems, but she keeps it quiet. I think she likes to pretend they’re okay. Probably because she wants them to be. You know she loves her decorating stuff here, and I think Adam is pushing her to move to New York with him again. It is the place for literary people I guess, but it’s just not Suri. I think she’s coming here tomorrow. If she gives you the scoop, I want to know.”
I babble some about classes. In the time since Cross’s accident, the new year has come and gone, and I’ve started the last semester of my second year of grad school. I search my mind for other updates, skipping over Mom (still in rehab), pop culture (Cross wouldn’t care), and my non-existent love life. I look down at my jeans. “I’ve been doing a paleo meal plan, just for kicks. I feel good, so I might keep going.”
I tell him more, sharing everything with him except for Hunter. Not that there’s anything to share. I haven’t seen him since that night at his vineyard, and my thoughts about him pull me in two directions. The main one, though, is interest. I still want him, still think of him, and I’ve decided his allure is that he’s not available. Hunter is a fantasy. And fantasies are safe. And yes, I need more therapy.
Putting Hunter out of my mind, I play some Grateful Dead on my iPhone, and then I use a straw to dip a little Sunkist into his mouth. He loves Sunkist, and I firmly believe that he can taste it. I put some strawberry lip balm on his lips and tuck the covers around his broad shoulders. The sheets and blankets are all from my room, where he was staying at my mom’s place. I want him to have things that smell familiar.
When I get up to leave, fifteen minutes after the arbitrary deadline assigned by Nurse Bitchface, I kiss him on the cheek. It’s selfish to play on the feelings he might have had for me, but I need him to wake up.
“I’ve got to go and read some Victor Hugo, but I’ll try to come back tomorrow. I want to hear about your next N-therapy session.” N-therapy is where they use some big, swanky machine this clinic patented to stimulate Cross’s brain. They talk to him while they wave a wand around his head, and supposedly that helps. It must, because people with brain injures come from all over the place to get treated here. In my mind, this is the very least his awful parents can do.
I stuff my hands into the pockets of my coat, feeling sad again. “I don’t want to pressure you, Cross, but I really do need you back. I miss you.” Tears fill my eyes, and on impulse, I lean down and kiss his cheek again.
When his eyes flutter, I think I’m seeing things. As soon as I realize those are really his blue eyes, I feel my throat constrict, like I’m going to get sick or cry.
“Cross?” My stinging eyes cling to his.
I almost faint as Cross blinks. His eyes tear, and he makes a face like he’s tasting something really sour. I feel something tickle my abs, and I realize he’s grabbing my shirt. I back up, gaping at him. Laughing. “Oh my God, Cross! Hi!”
His lips part, and I can see he’s trying to speak. I look down at myself and start to cry as I see his loose grasp on my shirt. My heart is beating so fast as I clasp his hand.
“Are you okay?” I would do anything on Earth to take that lost look off of his pale face. “Do you want me to call someone?”
His eyes squeeze shut, and his chest makes a rumbling noise.
“What’s that?” I whisper through my tears.
He shakes his head just a little and mumbles something. His lids drift lower, and I grab his cheek, worried that he’s slipping away. Instead, his eyes peek up at me again, and he mouths what I think is, “headache.”