Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
He turns his back and moves to the stove to turn the pork chops. I open my mouth, almost tell him. But I don’t. It’s opening a can of worms, a can full of emotions and heaviness, and that’s better left shut tight where I don’t have to think about it. “It was good to see her,” I finish with, because that’s what’s expected when you go home and see your mother.
“And Louisiana? How was that?” He turns, hands on hips. My gaze traces the strong, handsome lines of his face, and I can’t help but compare him to Noah, even though there’s a twenty year age gap. They’re both self-assured, borderline cocky.
“Fine. Humid. Churchy.”
Sam’s gaze is heavy. He nods slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m up to. Or maybe it’s just my paranoia.
“It’s nice to be back.” I force a smile, know he’ll take that as me saying it’s nice to be back here with him. And that’s exactly what happens. His lips curl up, and he leans in, kisses me. I let it linger, manage a smile back. But inside, I feel like shit. He’s a really nice guy.
We drink more wine, polish off the bottle.
After dinner, we fall into his bed and don’t come up for air until 1 a.m. Sam seems satisfied, sated even, and I’m glad for that, at least. I feel pretty darn relaxed, too, and I think I might even sleep tonight. But first, there’s something I need to do . . .
I crawl over and prop my head on a fist, leaning on Sam’s chest. His heart is still pounding beneath his rib cage.
“I have a favor to ask,” I say.
“Hmm?” he responds sleepily.
“When I was in Louisiana, I couldn’t find one of my friends. She was one of my best friends in high school. With my other friend, Ivy, we were like the three musketeers. But Ivy hasn’t been able to get ahold of her, either. I thought she moved down south, maybe to Florida. I’m sort of worried. I tried to look her up online, but I couldn’t find anything.”
“Maybe she got married? Changed her name?”
“Maybe, but . . .” I sit up, frown. “Shouldn’t there be a record of that?”
Sam searches my gaze, nods. “Yes, there should be.”
“Do you think maybe you can look her up in that system of yours?”
“Sure. What’s her name?”
I stare at him. Even in the dim light, I can make out his features, and I watch carefully as I say, “Jocelyn Burton.”
Mostly, I can’t imagine he has anything to do with any of this anymore. And he doesn’t make a weird face or look shocked. He just thinks it over for a moment and shrugs.
“Sure, I can run her for you. Anything else you have? Birth date or city she was born in?”
“I can write it all down for you in the morning.”
“Sounds good. I’ll look into it first thing. Don’t want you to worry.” His hand smooths over my head, through my hair. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Thanks,” I say. But I feel like an even bigger piece of shit because of how sweet he is.
We settle beneath the covers, and before long, his breathing takes on that steady, even rhythm of sleep. I expect to pass out, too. But I don’t. It’s like every other night lately. I’m staring at the ceiling, wondering who I can trust, if anyone. My mind wanders to tomorrow, to the next chapters that are due. Will Hannah submit more of her story? She still hasn’t answered my email. And if she does, what secrets will her story tell next?
CHAPTER
20
Chapter 3—Hannah’s Novel
Jocelyn’s heart raced as she walked through the empty halls. Today was the first time Mr. Sawyer had told her to come so late. Normally, they met after school, when activities were still going on and students were milling around. But now it was six in the evening, and the second floor was so empty that her footsteps echoed, reverberating off the walls. The extra few hours of waiting had seemed to drag on forever. It reminded Jocelyn of a line she’d once read in a book: Sometimes the anticipation is more exciting than the event. Wasn’t that the truth of most things in high school? First kiss, junior prom, Christmas—all letdowns. Yet Jocelyn’s time with Mr. Sawyer was different, likely because she couldn’t ever anticipate what he would have her do. As soon as she did, he changed things. They’d been meeting for almost a month now. During their last session, he’d read to her for the first time—poetry. He said he’d never shared it with anyone else. His voice had been low and raspy as he spoke. So damn sexy. She didn’t understand a lot of what he’d written—Jocelyn hoped one day she’d be smart enough that she would—but she thought his words were beautiful nonetheless.