Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“I try to.” Because to me, that’s what love should be about. “My father…he wasn’t good about a lot of things. He’s not good to me, but he listened to her. If she had a favorite food, he knew it. A favorite flower, he got it. One time we were walking through the store, and there was a Care Bear display. She mentioned how they were her favorite as a kid, and months later, he bought her one. I’d forgotten she’d said it, but he hadn’t. I didn’t get it, asked him why he got her a toy for kids, and he said because she liked them, because they brought her to a time when things were simpler, and when I found the person for me, the most important thing I could do was hear them. That always stuck with me. God, I can’t believe I still think about that.” How can the man who talked to me that way be the same one who has ignored me for years? But then, I think about how I would feel if I lost Ollie, and maybe I would be just as broken as my father is.
“You love him…he’s your dad.”
“I hate that I love him. It would be easier if I hated him.” Sometimes I try to tell myself that I do, that I hate my dad, but deep down, I know I don’t.
“That’s not how you work. Your heart is too big.”
I’m not convinced, but I like that Ollie thinks it. “I don’t want to talk about him right now. Come on. Today is about us.”
Ollie and I grab hoodies, put on our shoes, I take his hand, and for the first time in my life, I take someone I care about on a date.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ollie
Today has been the best day of my life.
It’s low sixties, but the sun is out, the weather prepping to change seasons. I haven’t gone hiking at all since I moved to Ashford, and it’s perfect that the first time I went was with Cillian.
Cillian, whom I’m in love with. Cillian, who set up this perfect day for us. We hiked, had a picnic lunch he’d made, and talked—talked and laughed and cuddled on a blanket.
Afterward we went for ice cream and walked around the shops in downtown Ashford, and now we’re pulling back up at the house. This is the only date I’ve ever been on, but I know none before it could have topped it. No one could have been better to share all the firsts I’ve had with Cillian other than him.
There are still no cars in the driveway, and just like Cillian said, he didn’t get a phone call all day. When we get inside, I’m surprised when he doesn’t go straight upstairs. I’m dying to feel Cillian inside me, and I know he must feel the same.
“Hey,” he says softly, and I look up at him. “Can I play for you?”
My hands start shaking. My heart races, and it also feels so big, like it doesn’t fit in my chest anymore. “Yes. I would love that. You don’t have to if you’re not ready, but I would love to hear you.”
“I can’t promise I’ll be any good. I haven’t played in a long time, but I think it will be one of those things I can’t forget, ya know? Like the muscle memory is still there. I want to try. I want to be more like you.”
It’s wild the way he sees me. I imagine it’s the same the other way around—me seeing things in Cillian he doesn’t see in himself. “Come on. I want to hear you play.”
When we get to the black, upright piano, Cillian pulls out the bench seat. We sit down together. He opens the piano book, going directly to page eighty-seven, the book creased there.
Moonlight Sonata.
“It was her favorite.” Cillian’s hands are shaking, and seeing it makes my heart break, while at the same time, I’m so proud of him.
“I can’t wait to hear it.” I press my lips to his shoulder. “You can do this.” The man beside me has done unimaginable things. He’s hurt people. He’ll hurt more people, yet this is probably the scariest thing he’s ever done—and maybe one of the most important.
Cillian doesn’t slowly work his way into it, instead placing his fingers directly onto the keys and starting to play. He only gets about ten seconds in before fumbling two notes. “Fuck,” he grits out. “Sorry. I should be able to do this.”
“Cut yourself some slack, Cil. You don’t have to be perfect.”
“Yes, I do. I haven’t played for her. She would hate that. I want to do it right.”
“She wouldn’t care about that, and neither do I. She would just want you to have this.”
He nods, and I realize how much Cillian needs this. That he’s playing for me, and for her, but more than that, he’s playing for himself, to get back a piece he lost with his mom, something he’s been afraid to look for until now…until me.