Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Now the pain crushing my chest isn’t whether I love her. It’s whether I’m brave enough to stop history from repeating itself before fear finishes the job for me.
Chapter 30
Daisy
It’s two in the morning and I’ve given up pretending sleep is coming.
I lie on my back in the bedroom that used to be mine—technically the guest room now—staring at the faint glow of the ceiling fan as it spins overhead. Somewhere along the way, my parents replaced the narrow twin with a real bed, updated the dresser, and swapped out my posters for neutral art meant to offend no one.
And still, the room carries echoes of who I used to be.
The mattress is comfortable. Familiar, even. I’ve slept here plenty of times over the years—holidays, long weekends, moments when I needed grounding—but tonight, nothing settles. No matter how I turn or pull the covers tighter, my body refuses to rest.
Posters once lined the walls and textbooks were stacked in uneven towers and I used to fall asleep believing the world would eventually make sense if I just worked hard enough.
Now the room feels akin to a museum of a former version of myself. Safe. And yet completely foreign.
I turn onto my side, the sheets whispering softly. A muffled sound breaks through the quiet.
Scratching.
I turn onto my side just as Roscoe jostles on the rug beside my bed, nails rasping lightly against the door. He lets out a low, impatient huff—the sound he makes when he needs to go out.
“Come on, Roscoe,” I murmur, pushing myself upright.
I sigh and push myself out of bed, slipping on my robe and old slippers—the ones my mom never threw out, threadbare but loyal. The house is quiet as I ease the door open and follow Roscoe down the stairs, careful not to make a sound.
Everyone else is asleep. The kind of deep holiday sleep that comes from full dinners and long conversations.
Roscoe waits impatiently at the front door, tail giving a single, hopeful wag.
“Okay, okay,” I whisper. “I’m coming.”
Roscoe is jumping straight up on his hind legs when I reach the entryway, front paws slapping against the window beside the door, tail going wild. His whole body vibrates with excitement and urgency.
“What is it?” I ask, kneeling and scratching behind his ears, trying to calm him. “What do you see?”
He doesn’t stop. Frowning, I lean closer, following his gaze, and glance out the window.
There he is.
Grizz.
He’s curled into himself on the rocking chair on my parents’ front porch, jacket pulled tight around his broad frame, head tipped slightly to the side like sleep claimed him before he could fight it. One long leg is stretched awkwardly, his hands folded together in his lap.
Grizz is here.
On my parents’ porch.
Asleep.
My breath leaves my body in a silent rush and my eyes roam all over him, unable to believe what I’m seeing.
The porch light casts a soft glow over him, illuminating the familiar angles of his face—so out of place here, and yet impossibly real.
Roscoe barks again, tail thumping against the wall, but I barely hear it. I open the front door slowly, careful not to let it creak.
Roscoe bolts past me the second the door opens, barking like the apocalypse just arrived. He barrels straight for Grizz, circling him, barking inches from his face, tail wagging violently like he can’t decide whether this is a threat or the best thing that’s ever happened.
“Roscoe!” I hiss, mortified. “Oh my God—Roscoe, stop!”
Grizz jolts awake, disoriented, blinking hard, surfacing from his slumber. He pushes himself upright just as Roscoe jumps on his hind legs, paws landing square on his chest.
“Whoa—hey—” Grizz mutters, half laughing, half defensive, hands coming up instinctively. “Jesus.”
“Down,” I whisper-shout, grabbing Roscoe by the collar. “Down, you menace.”
Roscoe ignores me completely, barking louder now that he’s confirmed this is, in fact, a human. Porch lights flick on across the street. Then a neighbor’s door opens. Great.
Grizz rubs a hand over his face, groggy and apologetic all at once. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask stunned.
“I got in just after midnight,” he says. “Didn’t want to knock. Didn’t want to… make a scene. Figured I’d wait until morning.”
I stare at him incredulous, Roscoe still barking.
“Well,” I say, “mission accomplished. No scene at all.”
Roscoe barks again and another light flips on two houses down.
I grab Grizz’s sleeve. “Come inside,” I say. “Now. Before the entire neighborhood thinks we’re being robbed.”
I drag Roscoe back in with one hand and usher Grizz through the door with the other, closing it softly behind us. The house settles around us again, quiet returning in waves.
We sit in the living room, the lamplight low, Roscoe finally appeased and sprawled out on the rug. I’m on one end of the couch, Grizz on the opposite.