Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“You don’t love him, Cordelia. That’s utter bullshit. I won’t have you wrecking your life with some boy who’s too busy chasing skirt when he isn’t getting shot at. You only have a few weeks left before you’re heading back to campus. I suggest you use them to flush him out of your system, one way or another. I don’t care how much in therapy fees I pay.”
Therapy fees?
He actually wants to force me to go to a flipping shrink over something that isn’t wrong?
Something inside me snaps.
I’m channeling Chris when my hand shoots up and my middle finger pops out.
Dad stares blankly, his eyebrows arched up, mouth hanging open, too stunned to speak.
“You know what? Fuck off. My life. My choices. Not yours.” I sigh roughly. “I only came to talk as a courtesy. I thought we were both adults and you’d at least hear me out, rather than doing her bidding.” I pause, readying the final blow. “When Chris gets home, we’re leaving, Dad. I’ll move in with him if I have to. And if you can settle down and do some soul searching, then maybe you’ll get an invitation to the wedding someday.”
“Cordelia—” He chokes on my name, wringing his hands.
I stop right there.
I realize what a hurt, petulant brat I sound like and I don’t care. Dad is not crapping on my feelings for Chris while he’s off risking life and limb.
And Dad isn’t the only one who’s paralyzed.
I’m seething, too angry to do anything else except march past him, heading for my room.
I’m upstairs when I hear him running after me. “Delia, wait! I didn’t excuse you. We’re not done talking yet!”
Oh, yes, we are.
What else is there to say?
I don’t stop moving until I’m in my room, slamming the door behind me.
I’m sure he doesn’t have the nerve to come after me.
The wicked contrast with my father’s weakness makes me think about Chris, and it hurts.
I can’t stand wondering if he’s okay.
Where he is. What he’s doing. Whether or not he’s even breathing.
Ugh.
He wouldn’t come out and say it, but I know he’s been thrown into something dangerous. And it’s a special kind of hell being stuck here, alone, when I need him more than ever.
I’m just trapped, caught between this screwed-up family business and the last man I ever expected to care so much for.
There’s no denying it, though.
Especially when Chris hangs on my mind every waking second, the entire reason I’m fighting my father tooth and nail for the first time in my life.
I’m not a religious person. But I stare outside at a cool late summer rain blowing in and send it a quiet prayer.
I ask the gods, the universe, whatever’s out there to protect Chris.
Please, bring him back to me, and mend this shattered family.
I ask for a chance to taste his lips again and renew my faith that everything will be okay.
* * *
The next couple days are a blur.
I alternate between my paper and long breaks where I bust out my paints.
At least heartbreak and anxiety make me super productive. Dad isn’t the only workaholic in the family who copes with pain by putting his head down.
I’m over halfway through a seventy-page research paper in two days.
I’ve also crafted a pretty forest scene with so much depth, all shadows and muted light spinning a rainbow of greens that spans the entire spectrum.
Green like his eyes.
Green like his soul.
Green like my envy for everyone who gets to fall in love without so much trouble.
Sighing, I rip myself away from it and take a shower before I break down again.
I haven’t heard a word from him for days.
But he said there’d be radio silence.
Still, I can’t help frantically searching Google, Twitter, and news sites almost hourly, searching for any mention of big kerfuffles in Mexico involving American security contractors.
For once, I don’t mind the professor hounding me like mad.
At least this time it’s because he likes the first leg of my paper so much he’s eager to see if the rest of it lives up to his lofty expectations.
I make myself scarce in the house, slipping Marguerite a few extra bucks to bring me sandwiches and yogurt and drinks to restock my mini fridge.
I hear Bruce and Evie talking in the hall a few times, muttering about me in low, worried voices. They just have to add their feelings to this sick, dark cloud that’s descended over our house.
Dad knocks on my door several times, calling my name.
“Go away!” I shout.
The silence and receding footsteps tell me he gives up.
He still respects my privacy, I guess.
As far as I’m concerned, this trouble is all in their own dumb heads.
If only they’d fret over Chris this much when he’s the one who actually needs it. He’s facing a thousand traumas, and I’m only up against one.