Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
He’s leaving.
Leaving me with a kindness I don’t trust.
But once, a long time ago, I did. I trusted his touch more than anything in the world.
We gravitate toward that connection, our bodies shifting, pulling, closing the distance, reaching for the safety and comfort we once found in each other.
Our foreheads touch. His breath shakes. Mine breaks. Then our lips meet.
Not soft. Not tentative. Not something that should happen between two people with our history.
It’s a kiss that detonates the years between us, the grief, the resentment, the secrets, and the longing neither of us ever admitted. A collision of everything we shoved down and never voiced.
His hands travel down my body and curl around my waist. My fingers twist into his shirt.
Hunger. Memory. Pain. All of it crashes at once.
The moment our mouths fuse, another life flashes in my mind, opening rooms I haven’t stepped into since I was a child.
Jag’s arms around me as our world fell apart. His voice singing to me in our cardboard fort. His large body climbing through my window. His bloodstained fingers braiding my hair. His shadow curled around me when I started my period. His breath whispering against my neck, I’ll never leave you. His pinky wrapped around mine. And the blood, the blood, the blood, always so much blood running off his hands and swirling down the sink.
The present dissolves. The years disintegrate. I’m small again, lost and clinging, and Jag is the only person in the world I have left.
The kiss hauls me back into every abandoned building, cardboard box, and dirty blanket I shared with him, and the memories swallow me whole.
Twenty-four years ago
Jag says this place is Portland, but it doesn’t look like a port or a land. The sky is always gray. The people are strange, and this corner store smells like old gum under the counter. But I don’t ask questions. If Jag says Portland, we’re in Portland.
All I know is it’s far from home.
Home is where I left my toys, pretty shoes, and soft sweaters. All the things I grew out of without meaning to.
I try not to think about Mom. Not because it hurts. It hurts a lot. But my head doesn’t know what to do with a hurt that big.
Jag says eight-year-olds aren’t built for that kind of thinking. Besides, my brain is too busy with the pinch in my belly. I’m always hungry, and it makes my tummy squirm and buzz like a mosquito.
I stare at the bag of peanuts in my hand, my mouth watering for the salty crunch. I just know the tiny pieces would fill the tiny pockets inside me.
Standing on my tiptoes, I search for Jag. I always know where he is, even when I can’t see him.
A few aisles over, I catch the top of his head. His messy brown hair never sits down, no matter how many times he pats it.
He’s taller than most sixteen-year-olds. I didn’t know that until a cashier somewhere told me.
I look down at my jeans, at the stiff dirt around the knees. They don’t touch my shoes anymore. Maybe I’m tall, too. My shirt has holes that weren’t there last year, and the rips around my neck are getting bigger. They flap when I move. The wind gets in.
But I’m not scared. The stomach ache doesn’t scare me. The holes don’t scare me. Nothing scares me when Jag is near.
Because he’s always near.
I hear his footsteps before I see him, a sound I know better than music. He appears in my aisle, wearing sneakers that have more holes than my shirt. His toe sticks out of one, like it got too big and broke free.
“Let’s go.” He snatches the peanuts from my hand and shoves them into the pocket of his denim coat.
A candy bar disappears into the other side, so quick it’s magic.
His hand closes around mine, his fingers warm and strong and never shaking, as he walks fast toward the door.
We don’t run. Running makes noise. Running makes people look.
We walk like we belong here. Like we’re supposed to have food in our pockets and empty bellies and nobody waiting for us anywhere.
Outside, the cold air bites my cheeks and stings my eyes. I’m thinking about tearing open the peanuts, about how good they’ll taste, when the cashier shouts from the doorway.
“Hey! You need to pay for that!”
My heart jumps.
Jag doesn’t flinch. His hand clamps harder around mine, and I squeeze back.
Now is when we run.
He pulls me forward so quick I almost leave my shoes behind. His legs are longer and faster. The sidewalk blurs, and my breath comes out in little squeaks. I try to keep up. I really do. But my feet tangle. Oh, no, I’m stumbling.
Jag immediately stops.
The cashier bursts around the corner behind us, yelling louder, waving his arms, and calling for help.