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)
She doesn’t protest when I scoop her up and carry her out, back across the walkway, into the guest house, and up the stairs to our bedroom.
I set her down gently, and she remains standing with her back to me, the tension in her neck warning me that a conversation is coming.
“You want to sit?” I ask.
“No. Just… Tell me.”
So I do.
I tell her every word Jag and I exchanged. Every look he threw at me. Every moment we stood too close. Every second neither of us pulled away. The way he put my thumb in his mouth as if testing to see if I’d burn or break.
I tell her he has the journal and a choice to make before I return.
Her shoulders hitch with each detail, and her breathing tenses like she’s trying not to shake.
“I didn’t kiss him,” I finish quietly.
“I did.” She turns toward me, her expression vulnerable. “Do you hate me?”
“Never.” I step into her space. “If anything, I love you more for it.”
“Why?” She frowns.
“Because I saw you two tonight. I saw what you used to be together, what you still are, the way he looks at you, the way you respond without meaning to.”
Her breath catches.
“It gave me a glimpse into your past.” I touch her chin, lifting it. “I saw your pain in that kiss, what it cost you to allow it, and what it took from you when you pulled away. It showed me more about who you are, what you need, and what you’ve been missing.”
Her lower lip trembles, not with fear or guilt. With relief.
And a tremor of something else neither of us is brave enough to name yet.
We peel off our clothes in tired silence. She shuts off the lights, and I lock the balcony door.
When we finally crawl under the blankets, she curls into me, legs tangled with mine, cheek tucked against my chest. My arms wrap around her on instinct.
But neither of us drifts off. Her breathing doesn’t even. My pulse doesn’t slow. The night doesn’t soften around us.
After a long stretch of shared darkness, she whispers, “I know you’re not asleep.”
“Neither are you.”
She lets out a breath that shakes. Then she starts talking.
“Jag was nine when our parents married. I was a baby, but I remember flashes of him in those early years. When our parents were still alive. I remember him hiding under the bed with me during their arguments, just to keep me company. And slipping extra dessert onto my plate when no one was looking. He was protective, even then.”
I stroke her back, slow circles, silent encouragement.
“When we lost them, everything changed.” She takes me through her life without stopping, from that first year on the streets to the night she ran after Jag in a wedding gown.
She tells me about the cardboard forts, tent villages, abandoned houses, and cold sidewalks they called home.
She tells me about the foster system, the bullies, abuse, molestations, and overall lack of adult supervision, and how Jag saved her from every bad situation with a promise in the bend of his pinky finger.
She tells me about the night she started her period and what happened after she told Jag her virginity had been taken from her.
She tells me about the deep, innocent love she had for him, and how it burned straight through her.
Then she tells me how he killed that love in a drug dealer’s house, how he hurt her so profoundly their relationship never recovered.
I can picture him in those early years, in his late teens, early twenties, homeless, feral, ready to torch the world for her. I can guess why he fucked those women after she offered her too-young body to him. He knew it would end her inappropriate crush and end whatever temptations he was fighting.
Deep down, she knows this, too. She just hasn’t been able to see past the excruciating devastation he inflicted.
“I thought he hated me and wanted to punish me.” Her hand fists in my shirt.
“You were fifteen, Bluebird. He screwed up how he handled it, like a typical twenty-year-old, idiot male. But rejecting you that night was the right thing, the only responsible choice, and he paid for it. Hell, he’s still paying for it.”
“I know that.” Her breath strikes my collarbone, warm and shaking. “Doesn’t excuse his behavior for the last seventeen years.”
“Dead on, darling.” I skate my fingers across her shoulders, tracing the faint scars in silent question.
“The marks are from that night. When I caught him with those women, I ran, shoved myself through a metal fence, and didn’t have the supplies to mend the wounds correctly.”
I keep my hand on her shoulder, but the scars don’t need more words tonight. “We need to sleep.”
She nods, exhausted enough that the motion barely registers.
“When we wake, I’ll return to Jag and see if he read the journal.” I yawn. “See if he’s ready to build trust and let me help.”