Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
I’m not sure if they are.
But if they aren’t, then they’re all fools.
Everyone should wear tweed jackets. All the time.
His eyes glint. “I’ll take your word for it. Since you’re the fashion expert between the two of us.”
“I am and you should.” I nod regally and with all the poise. Then, “So what’s your favorite color then?
A light frown appears between his brows again as if he’s thinking about it. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He shakes his head. “I mean, I’m sure I had one at one point but I don’t… remember.”
And the meaning of that hits me so hard that I don’t know how I breathe from one second to the next.
He doesn’t remember his favorite color.
He doesn’t remember the things that he liked at one point.
How is that possible? How is that even allowed?
No one should be allowed to forget their favorite color. No one should be allowed to forget the things that give them pleasure. That bring them happiness and joy and a smile to their face.
No one. And least of all him.
The man I’m in love with.
The man who has protected me like no one ever has. The man who sees me and inspires me. The man with so much talent and dedication and hard work.
The man who’s as lonely as me.
God, I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how to fix this for him. I don’t even think he’d let me.
But I wish he would.
I wish…
“Well, the jacket is brown but it has a subtle wine-colored pattern,” I say, because again I have to say something, do something, or I’d just break down right here and now. “You could see if you liked that. If not, then you could always pick another one. A new one. There’s this particular shade of pink that I like, that I also made into a dress. Maybe when you come inside and see all these colors, you can —”
“I’m not coming inside.”
“What?”
“I just came here to give you the gift.”
“You didn’t come for the party?”
“I have a meeting right now and —”
“Oh,” I say, my voice high, my head nodding rapidly. “Okay. Okay. Yeah, that’s fine. You’ll see pictures.”
A stark look of regret washes over his face and he takes a step toward me. “Poe, I’m —”
I step back though. “No, it’s okay. It really is.”
He watches my retreat and his jaw clenches.
I don’t have the energy to figure out what this means though. So I say, “Thanks for the gift. It’s really beautiful.”
I take another step back.
And he watches that too.
Then I say, even though I don’t want to, even though it kills me to say it, “Goodbye, Alaric.”
And with that, I turn around and make the climb.
Because it’s over.
Already.
It has been over for quite some time now and there’s no use clinging to a little bit of hope.
Hope is cruel. Hope kills.
It’s not the heartbreak that kills you, it’s the hope that your heart will one day stop hurting.
It won’t.
So I might as well get used to it now. Because I still stand by it.
I still stand by my decision to love him no matter what.
I hated him or thought I did for so many years, it’s only fair that I love him for the rest of eternity to make up for that.
So I climb the steps and I go inside the school and I walk and walk and walk down the hallway, bypassing all the students to get to the cafeteria. But when I get to the threshold, something stops me from going inside.
Some force has its fingers wrapped around my ankle and I can’t go forward. And I spin around, satchel and all, running back the way I came.
Running back to him.
I know, I know I said that I won’t run after him. I said that I won’t beg him or chase after him or make him take me back. But I can’t keep that promise. I can’t.
It’s too cruel.
Crueler than hope.
He has to take me back.
He has to let me in. He has to.
I can’t live without him. I won’t.
I need to love him. I need to make him happy.
I need to pamper him and spoil him and give him all the gifts so he never says that no one has ever given him a gift. I need to make new memories with him, happy memories, so he never forgets the things that give him pleasure.
I burst out the door, rush down the steps and start to run toward the gate.
But I’m only able to make it halfway through when a figure steps in front of me. “Poe.”
At first, I don’t recognize him. Even though I know that voice.
I know that voice very well.
And I think it’s because my mind is elsewhere. My mind is on the man I love.
But then I get it.