Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 822(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
“Something’s wrong with her,” I state.
“Why do you say that?”
“She sounded… different. Not like the Mom I remember. You know, the one that caught me sneaking you out of the house and threatened to call the cops?”
“Shit, I remember. But it’s a good thing she doesn’t sound like she used to, right?”
“Sort of… but not really. My parents aren’t even together anymore.”
He looks surprised. “They aren’t? For how long?”
I shake my head and shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Hmm. Wonder what happened…”
“I don’t know, but the only way I will be able to find out is by going back to Fox River to see her.”
He drops his arms, standing up straight and walking towards me. When he is close, he holds onto my upper arms, showcasing a faint smile.
“What did I tell you? I knew it was something.”
“Well, who knows? It could have all been a façade? She’s good at faking it, you know?”
“Nah.” He squeezes my shoulders. “Something tells me that wasn’t a façade. You seemed really surprised and you know all too well about her bullshit. You would have seen right through it, Jenny. Either she’s gotten better at faking it, or this is real.”
“Geez. I can’t believe so much has changed.”
“Shit changes every day, babe. No one is ever prepared for it, though. That’s why they call it life.”
I look up at him. “Well, I guess we should start packing then?”
“Yes, but first we have to take care of something.”
My brows dip. “And what’s that?”
His mouth twitches as he points his gaze down at my hand. I realize my hand is near his crotch and laugh, pulling my line of sight back up to his.
“I guess I can take care of that,” I giggle.
He squeezes my hand and leads the way towards the bed.
“No,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you. After all the shit I’ve put you through, you deserve it.”
Chapter 41
Drake
“Sing one of your songs to me,” I command.
Well, really it’s more of a plea. I hear the weakness in my voice and I don’t even care. I want her to feel accepted in every way. Every form.
I don’t want her breaths to be measured, or her heart to feel like it can’t beat wildly around me. I want her open and free. I want her to remember what we were—how wonderful we were when we were teenagers—and how much greater we can be now.
She giggles as I nuzzle the crook of her neck with my nose and mouth. “Drake, come on,” she whines. “I don’t want to sing those to you. Most of them are bad, I swear.”
“Fine.” I perch myself up on one elbow. “I’m sure you have your music on your phone or something somewhere. Let me hear it.”
“Actually, no.” She sits up, as if triumphant. “It’s back at my apartment in Yale. On my laptop. I’m supposed to go back to get my things in a week or so, before the lease is up.”
“Another thing on our to-do list, I see.”
She displays a bashful grin, hooking one arm around my neck. We’re lying on the bed. I’m in between her legs, my body hovering above hers, my groin pressing into the mound between her thighs.
“Yes.” She kisses me softly. Sweetly.
“You’re still not off the hook. Sing a small verse for me—doesn’t even have to be one of the bad ones. It can be a good one.”
“There aren’t many good ones.”
I groan. “Jenny...”
She takes note of my tight features and then does exactly what I want her to do.
She caves.
“Okay! Fine. You win.” She slides from beneath me and sits up, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But I don’t want to hear you complain when you hear it.”
She picks up her cellphone from the nightstand and then scrolls through it. When she finds what she needs, she presses play and instrumental music fills the room, streaming from an unknown source.
It’s a light, soft melody. One that, oddly, matches her entire personality. Her aura. It has a bit of quirkiness to it, but not so much as to bring the smooth melody over the top. An easy, steady pace, that is easy to relax to.
Pianos, violins, and an acoustic guitar are what I hear.
“I won’t sing a bad one. This one is much nicer compared to the others. But it was written for you… when we were okay. When we were eighteen. You’ll probably know what I mean when you hear it.” She reveals a faint smile and then shuts her eyes, drawing in a deep breath.
And when she starts to sing, I can’t look away.
I can’t stop listening. Her words hit me hard, but there is one part that gets to me the most.
A part that causes those memories we created to come tunneling back.
I remember in my bedroom
Eighteen and so soon
Constant turning in bed, thinking of you