Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 754(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
I didn’t look at her, but I heard her mouth move into a smile. “Magical,” she said. “That’s how I think of Honey Hill Farm. That’s how I remember it.”
“Golden,” I added. I felt unexpectedly choked up. “My memories of those years are gilded.”
She did look at me then, and I turned toward her. “It’s the first time you’ve talked about Honey Hill to me.”
Our faces were so close. I had this urge to pull away, worried that my body would act on its own accord regardless of what my mind told me was best. But I’d spent the day struggling to move my mind from the way Emily had felt snuggled against me the night before and couldn’t seem to do it anymore. It was exhausting because all I wanted to do was relive the memory of how we’d fit together so perfectly, how silky her skin was, and how, even though the only shower we’d taken in a week had been far too short and extremely frigid, to me, she still smelled like sunshine. “It’s hard for me to talk about Honey Hill,” I admitted. “It…hurts.”
Her eyes filled with empathy. This woman. She was made up of so many different shades. One minute she was irritating me, the next turning me on, and then she looked at me in a way that pierced my damn heart. It was difficult for me to understand her sometimes because I was so black-and-white. And she fascinated me too, just the same way she always had. She was silly and reckless and reactive and strong and fearless and gentle and sweet. And I never knew exactly which version of Emily would appear and it made me crazy, but I also couldn’t get enough.
The sun lowered, the hush of coming night falling over the woods. Emily reached out and used her thumb to smooth the space between my brows. I blew out a slow exhale, relaxing my face. I hadn’t even realized how tightly I’d been holding myself until she touched me in just that spot.
“I thought you were angry,” she murmured. “When your mother died.”
I blinked, surprised by her words. What had been on my face that had reminded her of my mother’s death? Her expression was wistful, slightly sad.
“But you weren’t mad,” she said. “You were sad but also…you were afraid.” She paused, and I couldn’t move, caught in her gaze, rendered mute by this version of her. Sweet. Tender. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see that. I thought you were angry…at life, at me, at everything. And so, when I didn’t get an immediate response, I ran from you. I left you alone because I thought it was what you wanted.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. But I felt captured in her gaze. Seen when I hadn’t experienced that for years, and certainly hadn’t known enough to miss it. And maybe it meant all the more that it was her gazing at me with such knowing depth. Clearly, I cared far more about her opinion of me than I’d allowed myself to believe, mostly because I’d assumed she found me lacking. The gentleness in her eyes made me want to fall into her and never come up for air. I hadn’t felt that type of kindness in so long. I reached out and put my hand over hers, needing so desperately to touch her. “I didn’t even know what I wanted, or needed, back then, Em. How could you have known?”
She sighed. She was so beautiful, especially now, gauzy light shifting over her face. She’d expressed regret about that time, but I had regrets too, ones that I hadn’t even seen clearly until very recently. “In that car on the highway outside Springfield,” I murmured, “you said you’d survived me leaving you once before.” She frowned slightly and tilted her head. “I did. I did do that, Em. I left and barely said goodbye. That wasn’t right. It’s not what a good friend would have done.” I understood now too why I’d sensed something unsaid when I’d denied lashing out at her in the wake of my mother’s death. She’d agreed, but I knew now that she would have preferred that to the stony silence I’d given her instead.
“I should have written to you, Tuck. I should have called. I could have reminded you that you were wanted and loved. Instead, I decided to pretend you no longer existed. It was a coping mechanism, but it didn’t work quite as well as I hoped it would.”
I felt so damn close to her, my throat full with the knowledge that I’d earned something back I thought was lost to me forever. Emily. My sidekick, my friend.
“Do you remember when I asked you to the prom?” she said.
The prom? “No. When did you do that?”