Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96404 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
I can eat on my own, but I open up and let her feed me. This is the most domesticated I’ve seen her and it touches a part of me I didn’t know existed.
“I wish I’d believed Mom when she said I should stay away. I wish I’d appreciated her more when she was alive. She died feeling uneasy that I was with Dad.”
“May she rest in peace.” A gloomy aura falls over us. The thought of the stern but kind Riko being dead leaves a heavy weight at the base of my chest.
She was always happy whenever I spent time with Naomi or went to pick her up. Once, she told me she was thrilled her daughter was finally having a great relationship.
Naomi shoves another spoonful at my mouth and twists her lips as moisture shines along her lids.
“Do you like working in her fashion house?”
“Not really. I’m just keeping it as a legacy.”
“Do you still sketch?”
Her eyes shine and she smiles. “Whenever I have time. I’ll show you…if you want.”
“Sure.”
Naomi takes the container and the spoon and places them on the nightstand. Then she rolls to her side, reaches for her bag, and retrieves a small pad.
After she hugs it to her chest for a second, she passes it to me.
I study her sketches—people, faces, some shadows. Cocking my head, I study the patterns and how they all seem like a variation of one person. It’s a lot more mature than back in high school, not that she was ever immature. Just a bit innocent, and now all of that innocence is completely gone.
“Laugh at them and I will kill you,” she says defensively.
I chuckle, “Tsundere.”
Her eyes widen and I pause. Fuck. I meant to never use that nickname again.
“Your technique has gotten so much better. And you’re still doing what you love, even if not professionally.”
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to pursue this as a profession, because it would probably kill my creativity. I’d rather keep it as a hobby.”
“I see.”
She removes the pad from my hands, slowly stroking its edges. “What about you? Are you doing what you love?”
“Yeah. The adrenaline rush I get from smashing someone in court chases away the urges. Even if only temporarily.”
“I never imagined you as a lawyer, though I should’ve suspected it, considering your perceptive nature and warped sense of justice. And, hey, you don’t make minimum wage like a detective. Wow, you’re living the dream.”
She remembers. We once talked about how I had people-reading skills and she suggested I become a detective to put that gift to use, but I vehemently refused to put so much effort for little pay. What she doesn’t know is that I did look into cultivating and growing my skills, which is why I chose to practice law.
The fact that she remembers our conversations from back then fills me with a sense of warmth I haven’t felt in a very long time.
“I see you haven’t really lost your cynical nature.”
“It comes out when someone like you provokes it.”
“Someone like me?”
“A soldier of dark justice.”
“You call it dark justice, I call it my own version of it. Nothing is black and white and everything can be turned gray.”
“Why am I not surprised that’s your motto?”
“People don’t really change.”
“You have.” She stares at her sketchpad.
“I have?”
“Yeah.”
“How so?”
“Your apartment. for one. It’s so empty.”
“I don’t need things.” Because I don’t want to be attached to anything, but I don’t tell her that.
“You’re colder and untouchable, too. You’re as far as the night sky and just as…scary sometimes.”
“Who made me that way?” It could be because I’m sick and can’t filter my words or that I’m just too fucking tired of the back and forth, but I don’t regret the words when they come out.
If it’s madness, I might as well indulge.
Naomi’s grip tightens on the pad and she visibly winces. Good. At least she recognizes what her actions have done. I hope she burns inside hotter and darker than I fucking do.
“Sebastian…”
“What, Naomi? What do you have to say?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck that. I’ve known darkness since I was six years old and I learned early on not to fight it and, eventually, I learned to blend with it. Being black was fine, even if it felt empty. Then you came along, and I wanted fucking gray. Now, I’m just colorless, so don’t sit there and tell me you have nothing to fucking say.”
Her lips tremble. “I’m sorry.”
“Your apologies don’t give me back the years I’ve lost, so fucking save them.”
“I lost those years, too.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” I motion at her bare ring finger. “Did you think hiding it would make me think of your marriage any less?”
She goes rigid, her hand tightening on her sketchpad and discomfort turning her skin sickly pale. I should stop, should shoo her away and reunite with the bitter asshole I became seven years ago and start a self-pity party, but I don’t.