Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Maybe I should’ve answered Maya’s call on Friday. I sure as hell wrestled with myself over it all weekend. Every minute that passed without a response made it seem more pointless to reach out. Every hour made it harder to justify why it took me so long to get back to her.
Maybe I’m just an asshole. I know how bad things are for her. At least, she’s told me about some of it. Her Dad locks her in the house and won’t let her move out. What else is he capable of?
Pulling into a parking space, my thoughts are still running rampant. I should have answered. But there are other things to consider. The more time I spend with her, the more time I want to spend, and it’s no good. That was why I forced myself to stay silent on Friday instead of responding. Not like I could tell her that—I would rather bite off my tongue than admit it’s safer to stay away from her because she’s too tempting. She draws me in too easily.
Besides, she needs to learn I can’t be responsible for every little thing that ever goes wrong, especially when it seems like so much goes wrong in her life. I’m nobody’s hero, nobody’s savior. If I ever had that impulse in me, she destroyed it.
When I think about it that way, I realize this is all on her. My conscience is at least a little relieved by the time I get out of the truck, jerking my chin in acknowledgment of a few people who call my name when they see me. None of this has to be my problem. I can bask in the warm sunshine and know there was nothing I could’ve done to help her.
I even manage to convince myself right up to the point of catching sight of her quickstepping her way to the library with her head down, arms folded. If only my heart wouldn’t beat faster. If only my feet wouldn’t take me in her direction. Stop, you stupid asshole! It’s a shame my body doesn’t care about what’s going on in my head.
She hasn’t lifted her gaze from the ground under her feet by the time she reaches the glass doors. What’s wrong with her this time? Probably running away before anybody can give her shit.
I should leave her alone. I need to leave her alone. I need to not care and ignore her because every minute I spend caring makes me more miserable in the end.
Yet here I am, falling in step beside her once we’re in the building. It’s quiet here, cooler, and I appreciate the chance to smell her fruity shampoo even if I don’t appreciate the way she almost growls under her breath when she notices me. Then again, I ignored her over the weekend.
“You know,” I murmur, dispensing with small talk. “I do sometimes have my own shit going on. I can’t just drop everything the second you or anybody else calls.”
“Whatever.” Her voice is the thinnest whisper, almost inaudible. “Is that all you wanted to say?”
For the first time since spotting her from behind, I take a second to look at her, to really see her, and what I find brings me to a halt. She looks down at her arm once I’ve taken hold, then shoots me a dirty look. “Seriously?” she whispers.
I don’t care about her attitude, not when she looks like she died two days ago, and somebody dug her up this morning. There are pronounced circles under her eyes, and the unflattering fluorescent light doesn’t do her any favors. Her skin is almost transparent—I swear I see veins in her face, standing out against the pale white complexion.
“What happened?” I finally have to ask, serious now, pulling her with me into the first row between shelves. Holding her at arm’s length, I study her face, noticing how bloodshot her eyes are.
“Why do you care all of a sudden?” It’s a sneer. Cold, nasty, and I deserve it. There’s no way for me to make her understand why I have to stay away. I barely understand it myself—this hold she has over me. The way she draws me in and repulses me at the same time.
She makes me want to forget how she hurt me, which is the worst part. She makes me want her. And I hate her for it.
It doesn’t mean I can look at her this way and not at least be concerned. “Because you look like a ghost, and that’s fucked up, and I just wanna know why.”
“Maybe you could’ve known why if you didn’t ignore me. But it’s over now,” she concludes with a shrug of her shoulders.
Letting her go, I ask, “So what happened? What was the emergency?”
“I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter now. It’s all over. I got through it without you. I don’t even know what you could’ve done to help me,” she adds, staring at her feet. It’s incredible, the impulse to force her to look me in the eye. Somehow, she brings out every shitty thing about me. I hate her for that, too.