Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Because she put her voice to this famous tragedy and somehow made it feel like a prophecy. But underneath all of it, despite how much I want to listen, I can’t help but wonder...
Did she pick that book on purpose?
Is there a deeper meaning to why she reads it to me daily? Or am I just imagining things when it’s only a coincidence?
Other than the fact she’s rich and I’m not, we have nothing to do with these characters. Not one damn thing.
If she picks up Gatsby next, then yeah . . . I might start spiraling.
But for now, I tell myself it’s just time spent with her. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Today, we’re in our usual spot. Her spot, technically. This is her domain, after all.
The boathouse is too warm and humid. Sunlight streaks through the glass roof in thick rays.
She walks in like she owns the place, which is fitting because she does. The book is tucked under her arm, and her hair is pulled back. Where most people would look like a mess, she looks perfect, as always.
Man, you have it bad.
She sits next to me on the bench that’s seen better days, crossing her legs at the ankle like she’s posing for a portrait somewhere fancier than this boathouse that’s falling apart.
Her floral fragrance floats toward me, subtle yet mouthwatering.
I want to dip my head down and inhale her, drag the scent into my lungs. I don’t, because that would be insane. Just because the girl reads to you doesn’t mean she wants more.
I’m pretending to work on a leaf blower for the gardener. Its guts are in my lap, wires exposed, screws scattered, but I’m not fixing shit.
She cracks the spine of that damn book with delicate, confident fingers and begins to read.
Never one to enjoy being read to, it’s weird how much I love it when she does it.
She reads with emotion I can barely comprehend. Like she’s fully immersed in the plot, as the story flows through her bloodstream. Each word leaves her lips, and the passion behind it hits me like a punch to the sternum.
She reads like she’s trying to impress me. Not like she’s showing off, but like the words belong to her, and I sit here silent, pretending the blower is important while she dismantles me with every sentence.
When the words become too real, too pointed, too much like confessions disguised as literature, I hop up from the bench and move to the door.
I tighten bolts . . . every bolt. Then the hinge. Then the other hinge.
All of it a way to remind myself that she isn’t mine. And won’t be.
She’s from another world. A world I can view but never enter. If that weren’t enough, she’s leaving soon. College. A future with rich boys who quote philosophers between lacrosse practice and legacy luncheons.
Greek life. Secret societies. Generational wealth.
And me? I’ll go back to the kitchen. Side jobs. Looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next man in a suit to tell me I don’t belong.
She’s a Danforth. I am the help.
But when she reads, none of that matters. Not for a moment. Not to me.
“Heathcliff doesn’t actually love Catherine.” She flips a page. The sound echoes through the glass, ricocheting straight into my ribs. “He loves the idea of her and what she means to him. The obsession becomes more important than the person.”
“That’s the tragedy,” I reply instantly, faster than I mean to, masking the hit that line just delivered. “And the warning.”
Her eyes stay on the page, but I feel them. Like a spotlight cutting straight to the parts of me I avoid.
“Yeah,” she whispers, voice soft, dangerous.
My breath leaves my body. She tilts her head, slow, searching, and then looks right at me.
Like she knows exactly what I am. And dares me to be different.
I shouldn’t care. Not about her. Not about her metaphors, her mouth, her thoughts, her voice.
But she makes caring feel like inevitability. A gravity that I’m stupid enough to think I can fight.
She reads for another minute or two, then stops abruptly. She closes the book halfway, thumb marking her place.
Her eyes lift. They find mine and hold my gaze.
“You’re staring.” Her voice is soft but laced with warmth.
“So?” I answer, stepping closer.
“It’s distracting,” she whispers, lips curling into a challenge.
“Stop being interesting, then.”
Her grin is immediate. Dangerous. “Stop being dramatic.”
“Impossible.” I lean in just slightly. “I read Brontë now.”
She shoves my arm with a laugh, and I let her. I always let her.
The worst part? She makes all of this feel real.
The connection. The ease of it. The possibility we could be more.
It doesn’t matter that her father looks at me like I’m a stray dog they’re debating calling animal control on. It doesn’t matter that her world is stitched together with money and privilege while mine is duct tape and survival.