Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
And then—
Laughter. Clinking glasses. A voice beyond the door.
“Has anyone seen Harrison?”
We both freeze, breathless, tangled.
I gently pull out and discard the condom in the trash beneath the bookshelf. She lets her head rest against my shoulder, her body still quaking slightly.
I press kisses down her neck, slower now. Less punishment. More reverence.
“I hate you,” she mumbles into my shirt.
I smile.
“You’ll hate me more if you don’t let me take you back to my penthouse now,” I murmur, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Can we leave and finish this properly?”
She nods, dazed. “Yes… please.”
TWENTY-NINE (B)
ELIZA
Harrison’s fingers slide into my hair as he slides into me from behind, pulling me back so he can whisper directly into my ear.
“Were you really going to fuck another man while you’re living with me?”
“No… I…” I can barely form words. I’ve never known sex could feel like this—this deep, this intimate. All I want is for him to keep owning my body between the sheets, over and over, for the rest of my life. “I like you… a lot.”
He lets out a low laugh and presses a slow kiss against the side of my neck. “I like you a lot, too.”
He thrusts into me again, harder this time, and I fall apart all over again.
The rest of the night passes in waves of sex—slow, possessive sex on his bed… fast, breathless sex against the walls… and then nothing at all as I finally pass out in his arms.
THIRTY
HARRISON
Iwake up to the lingering scent of Eliza on my skin and the sheets still warm from where her body had tangled with mine all night.
But the bed beside me is empty.
Still half-hard from the memory of her, I reach out instinctively—only to meet cool linen and silence.
Frowning, I check her room. The shower. The living room. Every space on her side of the penthouse.
She’s not here.
Where are you right now?
Eliza
Just out.
At four a.m.?
Eliza
Yes.
Can you turn your location on, so I can know where ‘out’ is?
Eliza
No.
I call her. She answers on the first ring.
“I’m fine, Harrison.”
But her voice betrays her—fragile, laced with a quiet sniffle.
“I’m totally fine. I promise.”
“Just tell me where you are so I can make sure… You should’ve said something before leaving.”
“I’ll be home in a few hours. After I finish thinking.”
The line goes dead.
I call back. Straight to voicemail.
Not a good sign—and it stirs something I’ve been trying to bury.
I doubt this will end the same way as before, but I can’t risk sleeping on it.
I call Henry.
“I need you to help me find Eliza.”
“I’ll meet you in the garage, sir.”
THIRTY (B)
ELIZA
Iignore the strange wetness sliding down my cheeks, telling myself it’s just the mist from the tree leaves above me.
But I know better.
No matter how many years pass, this day never hurts any less. I always swear it’ll be different—that I’ll handle it better, feel less—but it always ends the same.
The cold sweat when I wake up. The memories waiting for me like landmines in every direction. The way my heart feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.
There’s no escaping it.
Not on Mother’s Day.
I have to find a quiet place where no one’s celebrating, where no one’s smiling or posting pastel-filtered photos with hashtags.
Sometimes I hide out for days, skipping stores until I know the shelves have moved on to pushing Father’s Day and Fourth of July sales.
Leaning back on the park bench, I shut my eyes and hope the memories will finally give me an hour of peace. Just one.
But the ache doesn’t fade.
Instead, I feel fingers threading gently through my hair.
My eyes flutter open.
Harrison is sitting next to me, his expression unreadable but his presence grounding.
“I was just about to call you,” I say, though my voice cracks. “I’m totally fine. I was just enjoying the view, see?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just wraps his arms around my shoulders, and I sink into his chest. The tears fall faster, heavier now that I’m not pretending.
He exhales slowly, then pulls me into his lap.
“Yesterday was my younger brother’s birthday,” he says quietly. “He was so smart, he skipped grades. Went to college a year before I did. He’s still the smartest person I’ve ever known.”
“You still talk to him?” I ask, my voice small.
“Not unless I go to the cemetery…” He meets my eyes. “He killed himself.”
My breath catches. “I’m so sorry…”
“It’s my fault he jumped,” he says flatly. “He begged me to come see him—he said he was breaking down—and I didn’t rush home like I should have.”
“You can’t really believe that…”
“I could’ve gotten him help,” he says. “I saw the signs. We all did. And none of us did anything.”
He rubs slow circles on my back.
“No one in my family talks about it,” he murmurs. “It’s like this incident we keep getting farther away from every year—like time alone will fix it. It won’t. And that’s a big part of why I can’t stand being around them.”