Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“You can pick.”
“Motivational, then, I guess.”
Ever since my grade ten English teacher told the class that journaling didn’t have to be writing down what you did in a day, I’ve been inspired to have this notebook and jot down my thoughts and feelings. It’s a great tool when it comes to taking the stuff banging around torturously in my brain and getting it out so it doesn’t bother me anymore, especially when I’d rather be sleeping than having my thoughts whirr around my brain in endless loops.
The book is almost full, but it’s not a problem. I’ve been inserting pages and papers in, and I can always glue in more when it gets to the end. I’m not going to stop until this thing resembles a textbook in thickness. I flip toward the back, finding something I wrote a few weeks ago.
When everything was drastically different, and I had no fucking idea what was coming down the road. No. Fucking. Idea.
“This is just my opinion. It’s not… ordained or anything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He does that thing with his voice where it conveys his smile. I don’t even have to look up.
I’m afraid if I do, I’m going to slam this notebook shut and put it back into my bag where it belongs. I never intended for any of this to see the light of day. When I said Luca was a safe person, I meant it. He’s not mine, but he’s my safe person in this moment, and if this moment is all we have, then I’m taking it. I’m going to grasp it and run with it, bundle it up and stuff it down inside me so I can pore over every detail later and probably churn, turn, and burn it into words in this very notebook.
I hold the page open and raise my head. I was afraid a moment ago, but now I want to say something to see Luca smile. I need to. “Can I have your opinion on something before I read this?”
“Uh, I guess so?” He’s cautious, sensing the smile trap I’m laying out for him.
“Can you be called a DILF if you’re not a dad?” I let that drop, wait a minute, then give him my most charming, innocent grin, batting my eyelashes dramatically.
He loses the battle, grinning in response and laughing as he shakes his head. “I have no idea. I wish I didn’t even know what DILF stands for.”
“Your smile is the best. Has anyone ever told you that?” I ask.
It fades as soon as I mention it. He squirms on the seat, tucking his left foot up under his right knee. He traces the top of his boot. “No. Especially not now.”
“I think it’s lovely, and the way the scars start at your lip gives you this sexy sort of sneer all the time. When you smile, it’s just the slightest bit uneven. It’s disarming and adorable and so sweet,” I tell him.
His head snaps up. His eyes are narrowed, looking for a real trap. “Are you fucking with me?”
“Would it be wrong to say that I wish I were, but in a literal sense?”
“Dulcie,” he groans.
“Okay.” I’ve tortured him and myself enough. “I’m reading now. Although I do have to note that when you say my name in a growly, threatening way, it makes me want to do the opposite of behaving.” And putting that out there does the exact opposite of keeping my hormones and all those sexy butterflies and buzzing buzzers in line. “I wrote this right after I talked to my dad, back when he told me we might have to shut down the bakery. I couldn’t sleep, and the weight coming down on me was endless. Forget the roof. The whole sky was tearing apart, and empires were dying. It was that kind of heavy blackness.”
“I understand,” he says solemnly.
He does. He knows what it is like to lose everything. His restaurants. His business. His work, his life, his love, his passion.
“Don’t be embarrassed. Your problems are every bit as valid to you as mine are to me. There’s no comparison,” I say.
He gets me. Even before I speak, he hears.
I bend my head and start reading. Letting my words leave this page is the most nerve-wracking experience. My fingers are so damp that I’m afraid they’ll leave marks on the pages.
“When things get bleak, everything hurts, and those depressingly philosophical questions just hit different, look for that one bright spot. Find something to celebrate. Just one thing. Art. Music. Nature. A new style of architecture that you didn’t know you’d be obsessed with but is surprisingly beautiful. A band you’ve never heard of. A flower that smells like dead things.
“When we keep searching, I want to believe life is an algorithm, and it will give back to you. Otherwise, it’s just all the big questions. It’s realizing there is no answer to why, realizing that pain is too big to be contained or rationalized, and that nothing happens for a reason. It’s realizing that happiness rushes away and slips through your fingers. If you’re truly blessed, you might realize less than a moment of unfiltered bliss throughout the whole of a lifetime. The hardness in the world and in yourself only compounds and compounds and becomes diamond strong and unbearable if the light of even a single candle can’t be found.”