Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
So today, on day eight, I’ve decided to take the matter into my own hands. When I see him standing at the tree as I’m leaving for work, instead of ignoring him and going on my way, I head to him. I watch him stand up straight as he notices me crossing the street to him, and then I watch him watch me. Take in my pink-colored lacy dress—it’s one of the dresses he bought me—and my Mary Janes. He looks at my braid hanging over my shoulder, and for a few seconds his eyes become glued to the swishing end, his fists clenching at his sides as if he’s imagining touching it, my hair.
Just as I reach him, he looks up, and I say, “What happened to your hand?”
This wasn’t the question I planned on asking him. So I’m surprised it came out, but it makes sense because there’s a bandage around his right palm and it looks similar to the one he had the night he rescued me. And he’s had it for two weeks now and shouldn’t it be healed?
“Cut my hand,” he says, his eyes never moving from mine.
“Again?”
“Yeah.”
“At the same spot?”
“At the same spot.”
“How’s that…” I take a deep breath and let it go before asking, “Where do you live?”
He shifts on his feet. “In the bunkhouse.”
“What bunkhouse?”
“The ranch where I work.”
I frown. “You’re working here?”
His lips twitch a little, and I swear to God, he looks like the Arsen back at Rawhide, all cocky and arrogant with his Stetson, his dark T-shirt and washed out jeans. His stubble-beard is back to being stubble, but his hair’s growing longer; I can see the strands curling at the nape of his neck. The look is only for a moment, though, and then he’s back to being a contradiction. Exhausted to the bone but oh so alive, like his life hasn’t ever been better. “What else would I be doin’?”
“I don’t know, going back to Black Rock? Working on your ranch. Breaking horses, thinking about your future. Any number of those things.”
“Can’t leave.”
I curl and uncurl my fingers. “How long are you going to keep this up?”
“Keep what up?” he asks almost cheerfully, like sparring with me first thing in the morning is putting him in good spirits.
“This. Following me around, watching me, standing under my window, writing notes to me.”
He pauses a beat to take me in. “You askin’ when I’m gonna die, darlin’? Because it won’t stop. Not until the last breath leaves my body.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, my chest tight, my belly fluttering.
For a second it looks like he’s going to say something in retort, and God, I wait for it. Despite everything, I wait for him to give me a chance to sass him back. But a few seconds of scrutiny later, his chest swells with a breath. “You’re gettin’ late for work. And so am I.”
He tips his chin at me, asking me without words to get going, but I don’t move. Instead, I say, “You’re torturing yourself.”
He clenches his jaw then because he knows I’m right. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” I insist, my tone urgent. “At first, I thought it was just the café but you live in a bunkhouse, Arsen. With God knows how many cowboys. You need to stop. You need to go back.”
You need help.
I don’t say it, but I know he gets my meaning. Because I’m right. He does need help, help with navigating on the outside. Especially navigating in crowded places, restaurants, bunkhouses. Every time I see him around lunch, his demeanor is different. He’s on edge and intense, his frame tighter. To the outside world, he probably looks threatening and dangerous with his clenched jaw and pitch-black eyes, but to me, he appears to be struggling.
The first time he showed up during lunch, I finally connected the dots from the very beginning. When we met at that café. Why he looked so intense and alert. It was his PTSD, among other things. And now every time he comes around, I want to go to him and shake some sense into him.
“I can handle myself,” he grunts, his jaw moving and back forth.
I don’t know how I do it, but I manage to keep myself from punching him in the face for being such a stubborn asshole. All I do is glare and ask, “You want to watch me then?”
“Never wanna stop watchin’ you.”
His tone makes my heart race, but I focus only on my anger, as I have been this past week. “Fine. Go ahead and watch me.”
This is diabolical, what I am doing, but it needs to be done.
He’s given me no other choice. I’ve tried everything, glaring at him on my way to work, freezing him out on my way back, repeatedly writing notes that tell him to leave. But he won’t listen. He won’t leave, and I want him to leave.