Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
careful distance.
"Thank you for the hike," I say.
My voice is polite. Professional. The same voice I use at the café when I'm taking orders from customers I'll never see again.
The same voice I use when I'm invisible.
"Thea—"
"It was nice. I should get back. I have homework."
"Thea, what she said—"
"It's fine." I'm still using that voice. That careful, invisible voice. "Can we go?"
He looks at me for a long moment. His expression is unreadable again, all the warmth from the overlook gone, replaced by something I can't identify.
Then he unlocks the car without a word.
I get in.
He gets in.
We drive back to the café in silence.
The fourteen-minute drive feels like twelve hours. I count seconds instead of looking at him. Eight hundred and forty seconds. That's how long it takes to drive from the trailhead back to the café when you're not speaking, when the silence is so heavy it feels like it has weight, when you're trying very hard not to cry.
840 seconds of me staring out the window and him driving with that same precise control and neither of us saying anything because what is there to say?
He pulls into the café parking lot. My car is still here, waiting exactly where I left it.
"Thank you for the ride," I say, and I reach for the door handle.
"Thea." His hand moves—not toward me, just toward the space between us—and then stops. "She is wrong."
I don't look at him. I can't. "It's fine."
"It is not fine. What she said—"
“It’s really fine." I open the door. The cold air rushes in. "I enjoyed the walk. Thank you."
"This is not—" He stops. Takes a breath. When he speaks again, his voice has gone formal. No contractions. "This is not what I wanted."
"I know." And I do know. I know he didn't plan for Kimberly to show up. I know he didn't want her to say what she said. I know he was trying to defend me back there on the trail.
But none of that changes the fact that she was right.
"I have to go," I say.
"Tomorrow—"
"I'm working."
"Thea—"
"Goodbye, Santino."
I get out of the car. Close the door. Walk to my car—fourteen steps, I count them automatically—and I don't look back.
I get in. Start the engine. It takes three tries again, which is mortifying, but he's still sitting there in the parking lot, watching, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole time.
Finally the engine catches, and I pull out, and I drive home, and I don't let myself cry until I'm inside my apartment with the door locked and no one can see.
Then I sit on my bed—the mattress that's really just an IKEA frame I assembled wrong—and I let myself fall apart.
I know You’re here for me, God. I know I’m safe with You. I know I’m loved by You. But I still hurt.
Chapter Five
THREE DAYS.
That's how long I manage to keep my armor intact.
Three days of "good morning" with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. Three days of "more coffee?" in that careful, professional voice. Three days of taking his order and bringing his food and not once—not once—meeting his eyes for longer than necessary.
Three days of being invisible again.
And I'm good at it. I've had twenty-one years of practice.
He comes in every morning at seven-twenty-three. Same booth. Same routine. But something's different now. He watches me more carefully. Studies me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve.
I don't give him anything to solve.
Day one, he tries to talk to me. "Thea—"
"The omelet today?" Professional smile. Order pad ready.
He pauses. Then: "Yes. Thank you."
I walk away before he can say anything else.
Day two, he changes tactics. When I bring his coffee, he says, "I would like to explain—"
"Anything else I can get you?" Still smiling. Still professional. Still not looking at his eyes.
"Thea, what she said—"
"I'll put your order in."
I'm gone before he can finish.
Day three, he doesn't try to talk at all. Just orders. Just eats. Just leaves a twenty percent tip exactly, not a penny more or less.
Just like the first thirty-six days, except now we both know what we're not saying.
Jolie notices, of course.
"You're doing the thing," she says on day three, leaning against the counter with Wuthering Heights tucked under her arm. She has it open to Page 46. Huh? Wasn’t she on page 58 the last time?
"What thing?"
"The invisible thing. The smile-that's-not-a-smile thing. The 'I'm-fine-everything's-fine' thing." She sets her book down. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Thea—"
"I went hiking. We ran into Kimberly. She said something. I came home. Nothing happened."
"What did Kimberly say?"
I busy myself with wiping down the espresso machine. "It doesn't matter."
"If it doesn't matter, why are you avoiding him?"
"I'm not avoiding him. I'm working."
"You're avoiding him while working. There's a difference." She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Did he do something?"
"No."
"Did he say something?"