Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 61867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
My brain doesn’t even seem to be working right as I walk. Everything feels like I’m trapped in a dense fog as I move, trying not to draw too much attention to myself.
My parents are dead. The realization hits me like a cold brick to the skull.
I’m alone with no money and no passport in Albania, and I have no idea what I’m going to do next to survive.
I don’t want to believe it.
I can’t.
This has to be a dream. I pinch myself hard on the arm, praying that I’ll wake up somewhere, anywhere. I don’t care where. It doesn’t even have to be back home in the States; it could be back at that goddamn cell in the warehouse, just as long as my parents are still alive and I have a chance at finding them again.
Please, this can’t be true. Please tell me this is just a nightmare.
Please, Mom, Dad, please help me…
Chapter 19
Iris
Istill feel awful as we pull up and park at the manor. I really fucked up back there at dinner. I know it, and I don’t know what to do to fix it. I try to start a conversation before we go inside, but even as I open my mouth, Jameson is already getting out of his seat and heading inside.
Guilt flows through me, threatening to swallow me up as I take a deep breath and follow after him.
What am I even going to say to him? He obviously doesn’t want to hear anything from me. Should I just let him go be by himself and go find a room and stay in it on my own? Should I call Eliza and have her come and get me? Then again, she’s probably working, so my only other option is catching an Uber back home, and the last place I want to be right now is home dealing with Mom.
What a predicament.
I follow Jameson like a wounded puppy, limping after him as he opens the door to the house, not even holding it open for me as he goes inside. It’s then that I realize just how heavy the door is as it swings shut, as I have to use all my body weight to keep it from sending me sprawling.
I know he didn’t mean to hit me with the door, but it’s hard not to feel like he did as I stumble through the threshold behind him.
“Jameson, what the fuck?” I blurt out. “Was that really necessary? I said I was sorry!”
He turns and looks at me, his face blank. “Was what necessary?”
I gasp back at him and point to the door. “You just hit me with the door!”
“I hit you with it?” he asks. “Why? Because I didn’t hold it open for you?”
“Seriously? Are you seriously going to act like an asshole right now?”
I watch as my words sink in and Jameson’s stony visage falters slightly. He tries to hide it, but I see his shoulders rise as he takes a breath.
“Fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you with the door. That was wrong of me.”
Despite his apology, I still kind of want to hit him. I don’t know why. I’m the one who started all of this with my inconsiderate, thoughtless comment. But all this is terrifying me. I’ve never had a confrontation like this with Jameson. For as long as I’ve known him, we’ve never even gotten into anything remotely close to an argument or a scrap. Everything has always been a joke or a tease that resolved itself nearly instantaneously.
But this—this feels like a bomb is about to go off, and I’m absolutely terrified.
“And I didn’t mean to say what I said,” I reply. “That was wrong of me too. Can we both accept we made mistakes and move on? I can’t handle this, Jameson.”
“You really want to compare me not holding the door for you to you making a comment about my dead parents?” He frowns, his voice low.
“I wouldn’t say I made a comment about your parents…” I mutter, doing my best not to feel ashamed. “In fact, I didn’t mention them at all. I said something about my mom.”
“You’re right. You didn’t mention them directly, but you’d think you’d realize the implications…” His voice trails off, and he turns away from me. I can see his body go stiff as he thinks about something—something only he could know about.
“Jameson,” I say gently, moving up behind him cautiously, like a traveler on safari trying not to spook a wild animal. “I can only imagine what you went through in Albania. And I can only imagine what it’s like for you to have lost your parents the way you did. And I’m so sorry for what I said to you. But you’re not the only one to have suffered, you know?”