Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I know that sounds extremely callous but it's the truth.
Only I didn't mind. I didn't mind because I didn't care. I had pushed them away from me from the start, kept my distance, and some women know when they want more and know when they won’t get more. I knew that the sex and company they provided would eventually be taken up by someone else. If you don't invest your heart in someone, you don't get hurt.
It worked well for me.
It worked well until I fell head over heels for Marina.
Now, this was someone I cared about deeply, more than anyone else in my life. This time, there was a big, terrible chance that I could get ruined by her, by us. That every fear, every scabbed over emotional wound would become raw again.
I have no playbook anymore. I have no game plan. There is no experiment. I wish I could just let us take it one day at a time and stop thinking about the future. Just enjoy the sex, the company, the intimacy that both soothes and startles me.
That's what I've been trying to do but each day I'm with her, I'm so...sunk. Just in her, underneath her, that I can't even see straight. Can't think straight.
And those words, those beautiful words.
"I love you."
The more they mean to me, the scarier it gets. The more I want to run.
But I can't. I can't do that to her. I can't do that to the person I care about most.
I won't...
Traffic is light so I get to the house a bit early, heading through the gates and parking in the guest parking spot.
I knock on the door and to my surprise it's answered by my mother, not Rosalie.
"Are you the help now?" I ask her, joking.
My mother gives me a tight smile in return. Obviously not in the mood for jokes. But when is she ever?
"Come on in," she says. "Rosalie has the day off."
"Wow, you let your help have days off? You're so generous."
"Don't be snide, Lazarus," she warns me with a sigh.
"Never. Where is Noah?"
She points above her to his room. "In the shower. I'm afraid he just stepped in so you're looking at a bit of a wait. I don't want to know why his showers are so long but I'm going to assume it's normal for a kid his age, right?"
The comment bothers me. Not because it's weird to hear her talk about Noah that way, but because she doesn't know what is normal. If she had been a regular mother and not sent me off to boarding school, then maybe she'd have some idea of what teenage boys are like.
"What?" she says to me, frowning as she closes the door behind us.
"Nothing," I tell her. "Just find it funny that you did have a fourteen-year old boy at some point, if you remember."
She exhales, almost rolling her eyes. "I don't want to hear it Laz, I've had a hell of a day. Do you want a cup of brew?"
I nod and follow her into the kitchen. The place is massive and cold and all stainless steel. I sit down at the marble bar top while she puts the kettle on and goes about getting the proper teacups, saucers, spoons.
"Seriously though, mum," I say, "Why did you send me away to boarding school?"
"Laz," she says tiredly. Her back is to me as she fishes out Orange Pekoe, so I can't read her face but I'm guessing she looks inconvenienced as always. "You always ask this."
"I have never asked this," I say, adamant. "And if I ever have, maybe because you never give me a straight answer."
"Many children go to boarding school. I went to boarding school when I was young and I loved it. You know it’s common in England."
"Mum, you told me your parents were abusive." She had never gone into details before but it certainly explained a lot, such as why she married my father to start with and why she fell in love with Daryl.
"Yes, well, that was normal too. Look, Lazarus, I don't know what you're getting at. So you went to boarding school? You had a great time, didn't you?"
I laugh, the sound sour. "Great time? Are you kidding me? I made the best out of a bad situation. Mum, I was sent away to live elsewhere for most of my teenage years. I rarely saw you, rarely even heard from you. It’s like I ceased to exist."
She hesitates as she puts the tea in the cups. "That's the time you should be sent away. That's when you need, no, want separation from your parents."
"I didn't," I tell her, my voice rising. The anger inside me is taking me by surprise. "I didn't want that at all. I wanted to be at home with you...mum I just wanted to...I just wanted to be loved. Why couldn't you just love me?"