Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 140523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 703(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 703(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Chris released a long-suffering sigh and smoothed his hair back with both hands. His jaw was still ticking away and his face looked tight, like he was barely holding it all together. The conversation itself hadn’t been as awkward as I’d thought it would be, but our reaction to each other was. Whenever our eyes met, one of us looked away. I didn’t know what else to say, or what he’d want to hear.
“This is all too fucking much.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it.
“It’s not your fault,” he countered, surprising me. He shook his head as if he was trying to wake up from a nightmare. “He should’ve been the one to tell me, and not now. The time to tell me was when he learned about you, and my mom…she won’t handle this well. I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’d be the best idea to tell her I know everything, and definitely not a good idea to let her know Dad kept sleeping with your…ah…your mom. She has her issues, and this would be too much for her.”
“Not my decision, and really, I just wanted to meet you. I just wanted to tell you I existed. I didn’t come here to mess with your family.” I gave him a shy smile and pulled my hands down to my lap. “Just wanted to meet you, that’s all.”
He cleared his throat and looked away. My stomach dropped. Maybe he wouldn’t want anything to do with me either. I knew that was a possibility, but after the week from hell, I hadn’t had much time to think it over, to think about what it would mean if he never wanted to see me again.
“That apartment I came to, that’s Dad’s, isn’t it?”
Licking my lips, I nodded.
Slowly, his brows drew together. “Dylan? Fuck, does Dylan know about all this? He was living there…how did he—”
“No, he doesn’t. Your dad gave Dylan the apartment keys only because he thought I was moving in with my friend, but it didn’t happen and he didn’t know. Then Dylan came and…it doesn’t matter. He had no idea, and he still doesn’t know. He thinks I’m sleeping with Mark, and Mark wouldn’t even let me tell… I couldn’t even—” All of a sudden, my voice broke and I couldn’t go on.
Dylan, I thought. Dylan, Dylan, Dylan…
Ever since he’d walked out of that apartment, something heavy had settled on my chest, like heartburn but worse, because no amount of apple cider vinegar or lemon juice or baking soda would fix it. My heart was broken, and I was so angry, so damn angry—at myself, at Mark, at my mom…at anything and everything.
So, when Chris asked for more information, I told him everything that had happened the last few weeks, how I’d argued with Mark about telling Dylan, and then everything that had happened back at the apartment that night, how Dylan had left thinking he was correct in his assumptions.
I wasn’t surprised when tears started to race down my cheeks as I was went through the stories. It felt like my entire heart was full of tears, and I felt alone. Without him, I felt so alone. I didn’t see him in the mornings. I didn’t get to (not so) secretly watch him work out. I didn’t see him in the evenings. I couldn’t watch him when he was working on a paper, focusing all his attention on his work. He worked hard, and he looked sexy while doing it. I didn’t get to see his smile, the way he looked at me, the way he smiled at me, just for me. I didn’t get to see his face that first moment when he walked in after a long day of training and saw me sitting on the floor, retouching photos, didn’t get to see how happy he looked to find me there. I didn’t get to feel his arms around me, crushing me. I didn’t get to hear his voice, nor did I get to eat pizza with him or watch a movie and fall asleep on him, with him.
I wiped off my tears, my face flushing when our waitress handed me more napkins to clean myself up and asked if she could help with anything. Chris thanked her for me then asked for coffee for himself and tea for me.
When I was no longer a blubbering mess, I apologized to Chris.
“He hit you?” he asked, his tone neutral.
I held the warm mug and acted as nonchalant as possible. “It’s fine.” I didn’t tell him that neither my dad nor my mom had ever hit me.
Two hours had passed, and I was drained—drained of words and tears, of energy and emotions.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Zoe…I have no fucking idea how I’m gonna deal with all this.”