Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I adore what I do, and I love my life. I’m thankful for every single opportunity this has brought me, every single emotion I’ve felt, and every single person I’ve met.
But part of me understands why Carissa is so afraid of fame. Afraid? I don’t think it’s fear. It’s something else. Something deeper, wiser, more.
Logically, I know I didn’t out her. There’s zero chance of anyone looking her up. But logistically, it doesn’t matter what’s right or wrong. The thing is, I hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I did, after everything she did to help me. She cleaned me up, looked after me, cared for me, and fell asleep beside me like I meant something to her. The amount of trust she placed in me was astronomical. She made it seem easy. I felt safer than I have in years. I felt seen. Like the me that I can’t let exist most days. I felt almost… loved.
I head straight for my bunk and pull back the covers.
Nothing.
I find it when I lift the pillows.
Her journal with all those… songs.
I don’t know what else to call them, but they’re not just lyrics. It’s not just music. It’s a way of communicating between two souls.
She left this for me.
Two souls. Hers and mine, the most intimate bond that could exist.
I grip the journal and squeeze myself into the bunk, facing the wall. The confined space is more like a cocoon than a coffin.
The hurt that stabs through me is so immense that it twists my stomach. But not in the way the chicken did. Gut-wrenching doesn’t even begin to describe the pain. Also? It’s not just located locally. My chest aches. My throat hurts. My head throbs.
I have to apologize. I have to make this right. I have her songs, and I know I can’t just leave it at that. I need to see her again.
She told me not to come as me because she didn’t want my world at her doorstep. She didn’t want Wilder.
Would she accept me if it wasn’t me but was technically still me?
That only makes my head pound harder. My fingers curl tighter around the journal, clutching it against my chest. Fuck the headache. I’ll think about this all night. I’ll find a way to make this right.
I have to.
Chapter six
Carissa
What the hell is this?
No matter how much makeup and how many ridiculous layers of clothing, no matter the wig, the hat, and the fake beard—no matter what—I’m always going to know it’s Wilder standing at my front door, ringing the bell, and if I know, then…
I race from the kitchen, where my phone dinged with the notification that someone was on the doorstep, straight to the front entrance. I whip open the door like a hurricane-strength wind is snatching the damn thing, nearly tearing it off its hinges, and tug him inside.
My first reaction should be fury that he’s here when I was pretty darned specific about this being the last place he should show up, but how can I muster annoyance or anger toward a man dressed in a green and red plaid blazer, a velvet top hat, thick black-rimmed glasses, a footlong fake beard, red leather pants tight enough that grease was probably involved to get them on, snakeskin boots, and a long black wig to top it all off?
I release Wilder’s bicep as soon as I have the door shut and locked, as if there’s a herd of rabid fans chasing after him. I do race to the window and part the blinds to look outside, but there’s no one that I can see.
My fingers might also need a second to recover from being wrapped around Wilder’s arm. Even if I didn’t touch his skin, I still touched something that’s in contact with his skin, which means buzzing. A whole lot of bees sewn under my skin in a disturbed hive with a massive bunch of lip-licking, honey-eating predators salivating close by type of buzzing.
I suck it up and pretend like my whole insides haven’t gone straight-up livewire. It’s a lie. My face is hot. My nipples are hot. My stomach hurts from the sudden fireworks exploding in my ovaries. And my panties are wet, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t go well with electricity.
“Are you insane?” I hiss, summoning some indignation just because I should have a right to feel it. “What are you doing here?”
If I’d known he was coming, I would have said no, obviously, but I also would have worn something other than old jean shorts and an oversized black T-shirt with a dancing pickle riding an eagle soaring between the clouds, yelling, “Surf’s up, dude!”
As if to back me up, Woof Woof Dog paces into the room. He’s an Old English Sheepdog. My mom rescued him two years ago. She was lonely with me being gone on tours all the time, and she claimed the cats were lonely too. At least that’s what she says every single time she adopts another pet.