Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“Because you’re one of the Davidsons and this is your manor,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
Humming, he jerks his chin at me. “So what’s this party for?”
Right.
There’s a party.
It’s happening in the backyard right now, just beyond the woods.
I can hear the laughter, the talking, the music wafting through the trees. Another one of the reasons why I couldn’t sleep tonight and decided to take a walk. Because of the noise and because my parents are both working and so sneaking out was easy. Not that I’m the sneaking out type but still.
The party is in honor of the Davidsons’ oldest son, Homer Davidson. I think he just graduated from business school and is now set to travel abroad in order to handle Davidson Hotel’s European division.
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“The same occasion you mentioned before, I assume.”
“I…”
“Wait, special occasion. That requires you to be so,” he looks me up and down again, “pink.”
“I’m not…” I shake my head. “It’s none of your business, what occasion it is. All you need to know is that you can’t ruin it.”
“How about you tell me what the special occasion is and I promise not to ruin it for you.”
“How about you promise not to ruin it and I won’t call security on you.”
Again my threat has a minimal effect on him. “Well then, I’m afraid we can’t come to an agreement.”
With that, he reaches his arm back to his pocket, quite possibly fishing for something, and I blurt out, “It’s my birthday.”
He pauses, his focus completely on me.
Damn it.
I can’t believe I gave in. I can’t believe I told him.
The first true thing in all of this.
It is my birthday.
That’s the occasion.
That’s why when I couldn’t sleep, I decided to put on my birthday dress and take a midnight stroll.
“Your birthday.”
Sighing, I continue, “Yes.” My eyes go to his arm that’s still in its position, at his back, quite possibly in his pocket. “And you can’t do whatever it is you were going to.”
“How old are you today?”
I draw back. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Fifteen?”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Nah,” he muses, his eyes searching my face, “fourteen, yeah?”
“I told you what you wanted to know. Now can you bring your arm up front please?”
“Jesus Christ, don’t tell me you’re thirteen,” he keeps guessing, emphasizing ‘thirteen.’
“What, why?”
“Because that would make you too young.”
“For what?” I’m so confused right now but I don’t care about that. I only care about his hand at his back. “Listen, you promised, okay? You promised that you wouldn’t ruin the party if I told you what you wanted to know and I did. And a promise is a promise. A promise is an oath. It’s a pledge; it’s a word of honor. It’s a covenant, commitment, contract and a vow. It’s a freaking bond.”
I do realize that I could probably not have gone this crazy with rattling off all the synonyms.
But then I’m stressed out. He’s stressing me out. And when I’m stressed out, I find solace — also known as comfort, consolation and relief — in language and words.
“I didn’t know that a promise could be so many things,” he says, quietly for some reason, his eyes becoming serious.
“It could be because…” I take a moment to catch my breath. “Synonyms.”
“Synonyms.”
“Yes.”
“What about them?”
Another moment to breathe. “I like them. I like synonyms. And, uh, words. I’m a logophile.”
“What’s a logophile?”
“It’s what you call someone when they love words in general.”
He keeps staring at me and staring at me and I open my mouth to tell him to stop when he speaks. “Tell me you’re not thirteen.”
His voice has gone lower. Deeper.
And my heart is beating even louder now because of it. “I’m not.”
“So fourteen then.”
“First you tell me that you’ll keep your promise and won’t ruin my birthday party.”
He stares at me a beat. “I won’t.”
I breathe in a sigh of relief, or I would have if he hadn’t done what he does in the next moment.
He brings his arm forward, but not because he has abandoned his plan. But because he has in his grip what he wanted out of his pocket, a black rectangular thing that he turns on with a flick of his thumb.
An orange flame bursts to life, making his summer skin glow for a second or two before he turns around and drops to the ground. In a flash, he sets the string on fire.
I watch it all with a thundering heart, as if in slow motion.
That lone spark of fire racing along the string. Just as it disappears around the corner, I come out of my shock and dash over to where he’s standing, facing away from me.
“What did you…” I breathe out, my chest heaving. “You promised. You promised that you wouldn’t ruin my party. You —”
It happens then.
This huge explosion. This boom that destroys all my words.