Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“Then I guess I’ll take the water option.”
I clench my eyes shut briefly and move across to the cupboard where I would keep glasses if I had more than two and they weren’t on rotation—in the dishwasher or on my bedside table. And now, they’re both on my bedside table. I open the cupboard and close it again.
“Out of glasses?”
“Yeah.” I want the ground the swallow me whole. “Just give me a second.” As I’m passing him, he takes my wrist, stopping me.
“Don’t worry about the water.”
A lump builds in my throat, infuriating me, and I look at him, desperate for him to see me. Understand me. But I’m terrified he could never. And then I wonder why now I care.
Again, it’s a stupid question.
He’s so unexpected, a relief from life I never dared wish to have. A distraction of the kind I could never consider, because the constant, consistent stench of misery lingers around me, day in, day out. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything, and if sharing might mean he walks away, I can’t let my walls drop. On top of that, the thought of being vulnerable, of showing him who I am and why I’m so utterly broken, makes me want to curl into a tighter ball than I usually do.
“Fuck, I hate this look on you,” he breathes, turning into me and completely encasing me in his arms. I melt into him, letting him hold me up, hugging me like I’d never admit I need to be hugged. It’s beautiful, and the tears that haven’t come for so long pinch at the backs of my eyes. I don’t know why I do, it seems really fucking pointless, but I will them away with everything I have. I don’t want to be pathetic to him.
A voice in my head screams, too late!
And yet he’s still here. Hugging me.
The strength in his cuddle should crush my weak form, but I never want him to let me go. He couldn’t get me any closer if he tried, our chest’s compressed, his arms around my shoulders overlapping, squeezing me to him. His mouth is resting on top of my head, his breath hot against my cold, wet scalp. And he holds me. And holds me. My fingers claw into the back of his suit jacket, clinging on. So much warmth. So much strength. I feel so safe.
At least, for now. In this moment. Can it last? Will it last?
It's too soon—never would be too soon—but he eventually gently pulls away, just enough to look down at me buried in his chest. I tilt my head up, catching his eyes. I could drown in them. I’ve thought about many ways to die, and I’d do it happily right now. “I’m here,” he says gently, bringing one hand to my face and tracing the line of my jaw. So gentle. And as he showers me in his concern, I realise Dec’s not the man I first pinned him as.
Cold.
He's got so much depth. So many sides.
They all intrigue me. He’s so multifaceted.
“My cheek was my mother,” I say, my mouth developing a mind of its own. “She’s not well.”
His heavy brow becomes heavier with a frown. “Is that why you couldn’t meet me?”
I nod, small and reluctantly. “I got a call from the care home. It’s Alzheimer’s. They said she was getting herself in a pickle, was asking for me.”
There’s definitely a fleeting look of relief that passes across his face, and it makes me wonder what conclusions he was drawing about my injury, or about why I cancelled meeting him. “Come.” He walks me to one of the two chairs and pulls it out, encouraging me to sit, before he leaves the kitchen and comes back with his coat, his hand in his inside pocket. He pulls out a pack of tissues and goes to the sink, running some water over one. He carries a pack of tissues. How charming. “This will have to do.” Dragging the other chair close, he sits and leans in, dabbing at my cheek. I watch him, completely fascinated by the concentration on his face, the lines on his forehead deep. “It’s not so bad.” One more dab before he puts the tissue on the table and exhales, leaning back in his chair.
I reach up and feel. “It was her ring,” I explain. “She was lashing out.”
“How long has she been in the care home?”
“Two years. She’s gotten worse these past few months. Hasn’t recognised me for some time, but they called as I was leaving the office and said she was asking for me. But when I got there . . .”
I don’t know no Camryn.
“I’m sorry,” Dec whispers.
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
“But I am.”
He’s sorry. I don’t want him to be sorry. I want him to be the medicine I need. The cure. And yet I know deep down in my gut I’m incurable. There’s nothing to be done but accept things will never be the same.