Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Put it back Kat.”
She doesn’t. It’s like she can’t.
And she’s right. Because this is the fucking Rubicon. Now she knows. Now there’s no going back.
With a deep breath, she breaks the silence. “I don’t… I don’t understand.” Her eyes are strong enough now to look up and meet mine.
And in those pretty brown eyes I see her fucking fire.
“I told you to put it down. Why the fuck don’t you listen, Kat?”
She stands up slowly, lips trembling. “You… you think of me? Like…” Her lips shake even more, almost bursting with tears, with emotion. “Like…that?”
Goddamn it. If she takes one step closer, there’s no fucking telling what I’ll do.
But she’s holding me fucking hostage with those eyes. Those cheeks. That face.
We should both be embarrassed and I know it. But neither of us is, I know that too. So here we are, at the darkest place, the forbidden threshold.
One of us better fucking flinch. Because if we don’t…
She reaches out and touches my forearm. The lightest touch, but it’s a fucking knockout punch to my heart. It’s like I can feel her own heart pounding through mine. “Kat,” is all I manage, then grab her by the shoulders, and shove her out the door.
I shut it behind her, and then sink down on the bed, grabbing my head and squeezing.
It is my fucking duty to resist this passion. My fucking honor to keep her safe. From anything. From anyone.
From me.
CHAPTER 6
Kat
I can’t feel my legs as I walk away. I feel dreamy, woozy, off-balance. All I know is I need to be away from him and clearly, he wants me to be away from him.
The beat of my own heart tells me that the sight of his photos, the journal, the tattoo—it brought up all the feelings in me that I have shoved away for so long.
For so long, I convinced myself my feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated.
No, that’s not enough. My feelings were wrong. They are wrong. More than wrong, dirty. Filthy. An abomination.
No matter what I saw in that journal, it doesn’t matter. It’s impossible.
I move through the unfamiliar house, like a visitor lost, and head downstairs. A stack of moving boxes catches my eye, piled up by the dining room. Moving boxes I recognize. I packed them after Mom and Dad died, and Trent insisted on paying for movers and a storage unit until I got settled somewhere new. When he’d asked about my new living situation, I lied again. Telling him there was a new, gated complex with lots of younger people moving into a up and coming old neighborhood, but my place was too small for all the family stuff, so he said he’d just keep it in storage until he got back, then we could deal with it together.
Now some of the boxes are here, and the top one is open. And sticking out from it I see our old family album.
A forest-green cover, embossed with gold, cheap but the nicest we could afford at the time. I remember picking it out at the craft store, feeling like it was so unusual. So special. Nothing but cardboard and fake gold embossing, but it seemed like the loveliest thing in the world back then.
The pages crinkle as I open the cover, and our family photos stare back at me from behind protective cellophane sheets.
The first picture, which my mom carefully centered by itself, is a 5 x 7 of our whole family, taken at our one trip to the Sears portrait studio. I look awkward in a little purple dress, my belly sticking out and braces on my teeth. Trent looks stiff and formal in his suit, with his hair carefully combed.
But his eyes, they’re the same. Those eyes that melted me then. But, there’s more. Something I never noticed before. He’s not looking at the camera.
He’s looking at me.
Our parents raised us as though we came from them both. His mom, Emily, was ten years younger than my dad. They fit together like peanut butter and jelly. Like tea with honey. Yin and yang. But it took me nearly all my life to see it.
Emily had Trent when she was only 17. My dad was older than most of my friends’ fathers. May and December. But it worked for them. Perfectly. Even looking at this picture now, with its soft edges and baby-blue background, I see it. The adoration. The affection. The contentment of finding that extraordinary thing. Another person to complete you. Another person to make you whole.
Someone that says, it’s okay to be you, because to me, you are perfect.
Trent never talked much about his real dad, probably because there wasn’t much to talk about. I scooped up bits and pieces, from whispered conversations, and Christmas card newsletters from distant family. He was a loner, lived in a crummy apartment somewhere. He enjoyed whiskey and a lack of responsibilities.