Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 934(@200wpm)___ 747(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
In all of this though, I realize that he still hasn’t let go of my hand.
So I renew my struggles.
I twist my hand in his, trying to pull it free.
Which I guess reminds him of the situation at hand because he finally goes alert. At last, his eyes look awake and the first thing they focus on is me.
Propped up on the pillows.
My hair probably all sleep tangled and strewn about, and my eyes stern.
Or at least I hope they look stern.
Neither of us says anything but I still try to jerk myself free from his grip. He looks down at our joined hands and my struggles increase. He breathes out long and sharp, his shoulders undulating, as if preparing himself for something.
Before he lets me go.
The moment he does, I sit up in the bed and he stands up from the chair. He goes to a table on the side, again generic and without any personality and something that I’d missed in my initial perusal. There’s a glass of orange juice sitting on it that he brings to me.
“Here,” he offers.
I look at it suspiciously. “I don’t like orange juice.”
“It’s passion fruit.”
I hate him.
Because I love passion fruit juice. I could drink passion fruit juice till the end of time. And the fact that he remembered… No, actually, the fact that he had passion fruit juice ready for me as soon as I woke up as if he’s bringing me breakfast—or rather juice—in bed like this is such a normal occurrence, makes me even madder.
First, it’s not even morning right now.
Second, this is not normal.
He beat up his twin brother last night because I said I loved him.
He got beaten up for it in return as well.
How is any of that normal?
I mean just look at his face.
All banged up and battered. Bruises galore; all of them look red and angry.
Painful.
And like before, on the night of my fake engagement, I feel it. Right in my chest. That pain.
I feel the hurt that he must’ve gone through.
That he must have still be going through.
So to distract myself, I accept the juice from him and even take a sip as I ask a question I don’t really care about. “What… What time is it?”
“Just after three in the afternoon.”
I put the juice down on the nightstand. “What am I doing here?”
He studies my face. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“I could –”
“I’d like to go back home now,” I announce. “To New York.”
He stares down at me, his face impassive.
Or at least I think it is.
I mean I can’t really tell with all those bruises. With that black eye and cut on his lip. With how swollen the left side of his jaw is.
Maybe he’s frowning right now, who knows?
Because hey, I said I loved him and he got into a vicious fight with his brother.
“That’s not your home,” he corrects me after a long moment.
“No, that is my home,” I correct him back even though what he said was right. “My family lives there. My dad lives there.”
“Your mother lives there,” he says tightly.
“Who you were trying to hurt by the way.”
“Because she hurt you.”
“Are you going to hurt everyone who hurts me?”
He widens his stance. “Yes.”
My heart squeezes. “Then you should put yourself at the top of that list.”
He flinches.
And despite myself, my heart flinches too.
My stupid heart.
“I –”
“Does it hurt?” I ask, flicking my eyes over his banged-up face.
“Yeah.”
“Did you break something?”
He stares at me a beat, probably remembering how we had the same conversation the last time he got into a fight with Shepard over that cell phone. Then, shaking his head, “No.”
I fist my hands in my lap. “Too bad.”
“Maybe next time.”
I fist and fist my hands as I say, “Well, a girl can hope but…”
He frowns slightly because I went off script. “But what?”
I debate whether to say it.
Then I just do.
Because who cares?
“But I won’t be here for that,” I tell him.
“What?”
I nod. “I’m leaving.”
That frown thickens.
His mouth parts as well.
Along with his chest that jerks up and down with his breath.
Because apparently he does.
He cares.
I knew that. That’s why I said it.
Maybe it was petty, but I think I’m allowed a little pettiness right now. I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to want to hit his already battered face.
What I shouldn’t be allowed to want is to take the words I just spoke back.
The words that make him look agitated and dare I say, scared.
“Leaving for where?” he asks, his voice thick.
My heart is pounding in my chest as I lift my chin and reply, “For this drama camp in LA. My professor had helped me apply for it, just after the play. And well, we heard back. They want me. So I’m leaving for that.”
“You never…” His chest shudders with a breath. “You never said anything.”