Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
The porch light behind him turns on. Shit.
“Noah?” Salem’s voice carries from the doorway, tight with anxiety. “Who are you talking to?”
I freeze, caught between the instinct to bolt and the sudden, overwhelming need to remain standing here so I can see her face.
“You …” She steps onto the porch but then stops, her gaze ping-ponging between me, the driveway, and her brother. I watch as she clenches her hands at her sides, the nitrile squeaking. “What are you doing here?”
What am I doing here?
How do I tell her I need her help, that I need her as much as she needs me, without sounding desperate? That I’m so interested in her.
“You counted as people moved around the couch earlier. It was soft, but I heard it.”
Her soft eyes fill with surprise. Noah looks back and forth between us like he’s watching a tennis match.
“I count things, too,” I continue, the words spilling out faster than I can filter them. “Not the same way you do, but … panels on the walls at home, seconds between traffic lights, and heartbeats when I’m trying not to lose my shit at family dinners. It helps sometimes. Quiets the noise in my head.”
“Oh, Lee.” Her voice is drenched in heartache.
No, that’s not what I need. She doesn’t realize it yet, but we have a lot more in common than she thinks, and just like her, I don’t want anyone’s pity.
“I brought your gloves.” I hold up the bag. “I saw how your hands trembled in the elevator, and I assumed you needed clean ones to drive.” I shake my head, thinking maybe sanity will return to my brain.
Good luck getting her to agree to be your fake girlfriend now.
“This is all coming out wrong …”
She takes another step forward. Then walks one, two, three steps down. She hovers over that last step. “You followed me home?”
“Technically, I followed your brother to the drugstore, then followed him home.”
“That’s not any better,” Noah mutters, amusement lacing his words.
Salem wraps her arms around herself, her gaze drifting away before coming back. She hasn’t run away yet. Hasn’t called the cops. Hasn’t looked at me like I’m crazy.
That’s something, right?
“Can we …?” I glance at Noah, then back at Salem. “Talk? Just for a minute?”
Salem shifts her weight, and I notice how one foot slides back toward the door. Retreat position. That’s expected, but I’m patient and can be very persuasive. The only issue is I don’t have a lot of time. I need Salem to agree to be my fake girlfriend ASAP to escape my mother’s meddling. My heart kicks against my ribs, and I feel the pinch of anxiety.
“It’s late,” she whispers. “And I need to change my gloves, and count the kitchen tiles, and probably have a panic attack about you knowing where I live.”
The honesty in her voice and the way she just puts it out there without shame hits like a punch to the gut. When was the last time I was that real with anyone? Everything I do is measured to ensure the least embarrassment so I don’t make a dumb decision or say something out of line.
“I have ADHD,” I blurt out. “And probably a bunch of other mental health problems my family pretends don’t exist. Sometimes I can’t sit still or shut up or stop myself from doing stupid things like following pretty girls home because they look at me and see beneath the variety of masks I wear to cover up the realness that’s beneath.”
Noah makes a choking sound. Salem’s lips part as if she has something to say.
“And sometimes,” I continue because apparently my filter is completely fucked, and what does it matter at this point, “I hide in pantries because everything gets too loud, and bright, and then I meet someone who understands me without explanation. Someone who is wearing latex gloves and counting her breaths, and well, she’s terrified of being different, yet she has no idea how special she is.”
Her expression softens, and I know she not only sees it but she also understands.
“You’re crazy,” she whispers, but it doesn’t sound like an accusation.
“Probably,” I agree. Most definitely. I don’t think she would take well to discovering just how crazy about her, about all of this, I am. “Want to be crazy together?”
Noah groans. “Oh my god.”
But Salem … Salem damn near smiles.
“Coffee,” I say suddenly like it’s the answer to everything. “Tomorrow? Let me explain myself properly without your brother plotting my murder in the background or any expectations.”
“I’m not plotting,” Noah protests. “Just considering it a potential option.”
Salem fidgets with her gloves, and I hold up the clean ones.
“Why don’t we meet at the coffee shop on Oak Street? They have individually sealed creamers, and those paper sleeve things for the cups.”
I know that coffee shop is her favorite. She’s checked in there on social media more times than anywhere else. Salem bites her lip, and I force myself to remain standing there, to let her process what I’ve said. One, two, three seconds of silence.