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)
“Stop trying to sound wise,” I call after him as he disappears. “It’s weird.”
His laugh carries back to me. “Stop trying to sound brave. We both know you’re terrified of the unknown, and that’s okay.”
The power flickers once, twice, three times—because of course it would be three—before plunging the house into complete darkness. Lightning illuminates my room in stark bursts, making the shadows dance across my walls.
“Salem?” Noah calls from downstairs. “You okay up there?”
I’m about to answer when someone pounds on our front door. The sound echoes through the house like gunshots, making me jump.
“I’ll get it!” Noah shouts, and I hear his footsteps—nineteen to the door; I’ve counted them enough times to know.
Part of me wants to stay in my room, keep counting shadows, and pretend the world doesn’t exist. But Noah’s words echo in my head. Stop trying to sound brave. We both know you’re terrified.
My feet move before I can overthink it. Seventeen steps to the stairs. Twenty-seven down. Fifteen to the foyer where Noah stands with his hand on the doorknob.
Another crack of thunder.
Another pound at the door.
“Noah, wait—” But he’s already pulling it open.
Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the figure on our porch. Lee stands there, soaking wet, looking absolutely wrecked. His messy hair is plastered to his forehead, expensive clothes clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes find mine immediately, storm-gray dim and dark.
“You’re counting,” he says roughly. “I can see you counting the water dripping off my chin.”
“You’re dripping on my welcome mat.” The words come out barely a whisper.
“Forty-seven ceiling tiles in your room.” His voice is hoarse, desperate. “Twenty-seven steps up your driveway. Three knocks on your door because that’s your number. That’s always been your number.”
Noah backs away slowly. “I’ll just … go find some towels.”
Neither of us acknowledges him. Lee’s gaze holds mine, intense and pleading and somehow both strange and familiar at once.
“You disappeared.” He takes one step forward, water pooling around his feet. “You just … vanished. After everything. After that night. After …”
“Lee—”
“I counted every minute.” His hands clench at his sides. “Every second. Every breath between then and now. Because that’s what you taught me to do when everything feels like it’s falling apart.”
“You’re soaking wet,” I state the obvious since I’m unable to say anything else to his declaration while my brain processes.
“Yeah.” His laugh is hollow. “That’s what happens when you walk in the rain. Couldn’t drive. Too drunk. Or not drunk enough. I don’t know anymore.”
We stare at each other across the foyer, everything we’re not saying filling the space between.
“Salem,” he starts, taking another step forward.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. My brain short-circuits.
Can’t do anything except count the drops of water falling from his clothes.
One heartbeat of silence.
Two steps between us.
Three seconds before everything changes.
“I can’t pretend anymore.” Lee’s voice breaks on the words, raw and honest in a way that makes my chest ache. “I can’t … I don’t know how to keep acting like this is fake when everything about you feels real. I told you at the gala I want you to be mine. And I meant it.”
Water drips steadily from his clothes, creating patterns on the hardwood floor. I should be panicking about the mess, should be counting the drops, should be reaching for cleaning supplies. Instead, I can’t tear my eyes away from his face.
“Say something,” he pleads. “Count something. Clean something. Just … don’t disappear again.”
Noah knocks something off a shelf upstairs, but all I can focus on is the desperation clinging to every single one of Lee’s words. All I can see is the way his hands shake—not from bourbon this time, but from something deeper, more terrifying.
“Three feet,” I whisper.
His brow furrows. “What?”
“That’s the distance I keep between myself and everyone else. My safety bubble. My careful measure of space.” I take a shaky breath. “Except with you. With you, I forget to count the distance. Forget to measure the space. Forget to be afraid.”
Lightning illuminates his face, showing me everything he’s trying to hide. The hope. The fear. The raw need that mirrors my own.
“Salem—”
“I’m still counting,” I cut him off. “Still cleaning. Still broken in all these ways that your family hates. That society doesn’t understand. In ways that make me unsuitable for your world.”
“I don’t want suitable.” He takes another step forward, water trailing in his wake. “I don’t want perfect. I want you. With your gloves and your counting and your perfectly aligned textbooks. I want …”
Thunder cracks overhead, swallowing his next words. But I see them in his eyes. Feel them in the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something precious and terrifying all at once.
“Lee,” I breathe his name like a prayer, like a warning, like everything I can’t say.
The storm rages.
The power flickers.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us pretends this is still just an arrangement.