Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
She says it like a joke that I’m expected to laugh at. I can’t. It worries me that she’s being so glib about her problem. It worries me that despite her claims of this good run, she might still owe someone an ungodly amount of cash. How did she pay it off without using Macon’s watch? But I hold my tongue. If I’m going to stick to my word and stay out of her business, I have to start now.
“Delilah,” Sam begins after a moment. “This thing with Saint—tell me it isn’t serious.”
I move to the end of the counter and wipe away a water ring. “I know he was your boyfriend during school. And I wouldn’t have gone there with him if it wasn’t . . .” I take a deep breath and face her. “Yes, this is serious. I care about him.”
Pity fills her eyes. “Oh, Dee, you should know better. Saint isn’t capable of love.”
“That’s not true . . .”
“Did he tell you he loves you?” Her tone implies she already knows he didn’t.
I adore you. Every. Damn. Inch.
“We haven’t said those words yet . . .”
“And he never will.” She walks toward me, that damn pity all over her damn face. “Because he is playing you for a fool. I know you don’t believe me, but he did watch you all those years ago. Saint would have loved to get into your pants, if only to have the experience of catching you.”
“Why are you like this?” I rasp. “Why are you so hateful to anything good that comes into my life? This goes beyond jealousy. It’s cruel.”
Sam halts. “I’m trying to help you.”
“This isn’t help. This is an attempt to tear into my insecurities.”
“Dee,” she intones as if I’m a child. “If you have those fears, you have to ask yourself why.”
“I’m not listening to this anymore.”
Sam snags my wrist, and her tears are back. “He used me. For years he used me because he was bored. He’ll use you, too, because you’re safe and familiar.”
She knows me so well. Knows all the soft spots and ways to place a direct hit. She always has. I want to laugh until I howl. Bile fills my mouth. I swallow it back down, and it burns.
Sam stands there, smug but trying her best to look sad. “Think what you want. But ask yourself if you’re really willing to risk our relationship on someone as emotionally empty as Macon Saint. The boy who made your life a misery.”
When I don’t answer, Sam shrugs and turns to grab a glass from the cabinet as if she hasn’t just tried to cut my legs out from under me. While she hums and pours herself a glass of white wine from the fridge, I think about Macon. Every word he said. Every word I said. The way he touched me. The tenderness and need in his eyes when he looked at me. The way he laughed with me, held my hand, told me about his pain. The letters he wrote.
He lied. Sam lied. I lied.
Everyone lies sometimes.
Sam keeps humming. A stupid tune.
I gather my keys in hand. “Samantha?”
She raises an expectant brow.
“I love you very much.”
“I love you too, Dee. I’m glad we got that settled—”
“I love you,” I cut in. “But you’ve been a crap sister. Call me when you decide to grow the fuck up.”
I leave her and her ranting protests behind.
Macon
She’s gone. I pushed her away, and she left. I tell myself she’ll come back eventually. It’s not as though I’m just going to let her go without any further discussion. I’m not giving up. But I can’t control the outcome of everything. Which means I could lose her.
Did I truly have her? Here in the dark, it all feels like a strange dream. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe I’m still trapped in that wreckage of a car.
“Hell,” I say, disgusted at my own drama. I’ve been reading too many scripts. Rolling onto my side, I try to get comfortable. The sooner I sleep, the sooner I can wake up and see her.
The sound of the front door opening has me sitting up so fast my head spins. The house is too damn big to hear anything. It could be Delilah. Then again, it might not be. I ease out of bed, grab my discarded cane as a weapon, and move toward the bedroom door.
I hear the familiar sound of her footsteps a second before she enters the room. She sees me just as I’m lowering the cane, and she screeches.
“Jesus,” she shouts, holding her chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Heart pounding with released adrenaline, I slump against the wall. “I’m not the one creeping into bedrooms at two in the morning.”
Her shadowed face is a picture of indignant outrage. “I’m not creeping; I live here!”