Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“You can’t do that from across the country,” she mutters.
“I can take a vacation, travel, and come back here often. I like those trailers, the old ones that look like elongated tin cans. I might try my hand at restoring one and making it mirror-shiny again.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
I stand. She, on the other hand, maintains her ground and doesn’t blink. “I hear you. I know you walked away and needed distance, and I want to respect that, but at the same time, I couldn’t not come here. I couldn’t just let you go. I missed you.”
She blinks at that. I don’t know why she looks surprised. Was I that shitty at communicating?
“You…you do realize I’m socially awkward as far as most things go, right?” I continue. “I have terrible anxiety. Despite on and off medications and talking to therapists over the years, it’s stuck with me. I never had it when I was…well, during that part of my life. It only got bad when I got back. Does that sound stupid?”
I’m tough, but maybe I stood up too fast. Maybe it’s the fact that the anxiety is wrapping a tight fist around my lungs, and I feel the need to bend over and put my head between my legs. Whatever it is, my hand flies out to the counter as my head empties out, and the blood rushes elsewhere.
“Oh my god!” she exclaims. I feel soft hands on my chest, and one slides down to my waist. “Sit down! You might not have lost a lot of blood, but you lost some, and don’t think I didn’t notice that tool bag not using numbing spray or giving you a shot before he stitched you up.”
“There’s an unspoken—”
“Bro code about toughness?” she snorts. “Here.” A glass of water gets placed in my hand, and her cool palms cup my cheeks. Her touch is better than heaven. Maybe I should almost get injured more often.
“I could get that trailer, and you could come over. We could bake cookies. You and me and Peach Lips.”
A humming noise happens under her breath. Her hands linger on my face just a few seconds too long, and when she pulls them away, her fingertips brush my jawline. “Bake cookies?”
“I never have before.”
My vision clears enough to see her jaw unhinge, and I look up from there to the slight flush on her cheeks, her freckles standing out on her nose, her eyes darker than they normally are, fixed on me.
“You never baked cookies before?” she gasps.
“I never have,” I repeat.
She straightens, putting space between us. She skims her hands down her dress like they’re damp, which makes the fabric cling to her soft curves. My mind totally doesn’t go straight to taking that dress off of her and caressing her skin with my lips instead, and my cock isn’t in blackout mode. He’s in full punch the front of my pants to shit mode.
“I understand why you broke up that knife fight.” The sudden softness in her voice twists my insides. I told her more that night than I’ve told anyone. With just a few sentences now, I’ve laid myself bare. “You saw yourself in those kids. Boys on the street, getting old long before their time. But will you promise that you won’t be so reckless with your life? If you’re taking a break from security, can you please not put yourself in the line of fire for at least a few months while you heal?”
“I’ll try, but that’s like asking you not to jump into the middle of a rushing river to save a drowning kitten.”
“Dude,” she scoffs. “That’s such a horrifying picture. But you’re right. I’d save that kitten. Or a puppy. Or a snake. Or spider. I’d try to be smart, but there’s no way I wouldn’t jump in.”
A lingering, charged silence fills the space between us. I didn’t open up to her because I thought it could sway her. Not that night and not now. I just wanted to tell her something about me that no one else knew because it felt like I could. Like I needed to. I wanted her to know that I’m more than just a soldier, and now, more than the money I’ve amassed.
She knows. I know she knows.
But I still wanted to tell her.
I’m pretty sure she’s going to shut me down. She steps back, but then she freezes. My stupid hopes get wild, taking up far too much room in my chest and battering each other in there such that my muscles feel painful. And not from the cut on my side.
If only she knew how hard it was to come here, to take a chance, and to battle myself for months before I did it. I guess my family’s rejection of me, even though that’s not what it was, and I know that now, still hurts like a festering wound. It’s me who hasn’t taken care of the infection. Me who let it spread. It’s me who has to fix things. And I want to. I’m going to. The jet is taking me back home tonight.