Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“Past nine,” I tell her, setting a tray of food on her lap once she’s settled in against the pillows behind her.
“How are you feeling?” I ask carefully.
“Okay,” she answers after a moment. “I’m sorry about last night.”
“Please don’t do this, don’t blame yourself for our fuck up. We’re the assholes who went too far. You have nothing to be sorry about.”
“We took things too far. We should be more aware of what triggers you,” Nix chimes in. “We’re sorry.”
Leni nods, but doesn’t say anything else for a while. Nix and I simply stand in front of the bed, waiting for her directions.
When she finally speaks again, her voice still sounds tired. “I don’t want to talk about this right now. I want to forget it and move on.”
“Okay,” I agree with her, though I know this is not healthy. She should talk about it, if not with us, then with someone else. She needs to heal, and I need to figure out a way to help her without making it worse.
She runs her hands through her hair, then yawns again. “I shouldn’t be tired after sleeping as much as I did. I can’t believe it’s already after nine. I should be getting ready for class.” Though she looks pretty interested in the food Nix and I made for her. “This smells amazing.”
“I was thinking maybe we could skip class today.” Glancing at Nix, standing in the doorway, I take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Let’s just hang out today. What do you think? We can do whatever you want.”
“Really?” I can tell she’s interested by the way her eyes light up. “You think that’s safe? I thought we were supposed to pretend everything’s normal.”
“What’s not normal about skipping class?” Nix asks, chuckling. “I probably skipped more classes than I attended.” She smirks and shakes her head at him before picking up the utensils and cutting into the French toast.
I have my own opinions about whether it’s a good idea for her to go out and pretend to be normal today. After what happened last night, it’s probably safer to keep her here, at home. Who knows what could set her off? She’d hate it if she knew I was thinking about her like this—like she’s fragile, like she needs to be sheltered—but she’s too unstable right now, and I don’t want her breaking down again in public.
“I could use a personal day,” she decides before sinking her teeth into a thick piece of bread. Her eyes slowly close and her face goes slack. “Oh, my god,” she groans.
“I hope that’s a good sign?” I ask.
“It’s orgasmic.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody say something like that without laughing, but she means it, cutting another bite and practically jamming it into her mouth this time. Syrup drips on her chin—it’s amazing how even something as simple as that can make me hungry for something other than food. If I want to be careful with her, that means taking it easy with the physical stuff until she’s feeling better. So instead of leaning over to lick it off her skin, I hand her a napkin and point to the drip.
“So, what do you want to do on your personal day?” Nix asks.
With a shrug, she mumbles, “I don’t know. Maybe watch movies? Could we order food?”
“You’re still eating, and you want to order food?”
“You know what I’m saying,” she says, and I almost can’t believe how good it feels when she rolls her eyes. Like she’s already feeling more like herself. I spent all night on one sofa while Nix camped out on the other, staring at the ceiling and wondering what we could do to make up for what happened yesterday. It looks like this is a good start.
“Yeah, we can order food later on. Whatever you want. You don’t even have to get dressed,” I offer. “You can bring the blankets and pillows and kind of camp out on the couch all day.”
“Yeah, I would like that.”
And then she smiles, and it’s almost unfair. How am I supposed to remember to breathe when she looks happy for the first time in days? That’s all I want. How could it be that simple? All my life, I assumed what other people called love was just made-up shit for movies, to sell candy and diamond rings on Valentine’s Day. If anybody told me happiness could come from something as simple as loving somebody and seeing them smile, I would’ve laughed my ass off at them.
But here I am, almost hanging on her every word and action like my whole life depends on it. In a way, that’s how it feels. That’s who she’s turned me into. I don’t hate it, even if I don’t know what to do with the feeling.