Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Better?” he whispers, too close to my ear.
I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak.
His hand is still on my shoulder, his thumb pressing just slightly into the hollow of my collarbone.
“Good,” he says.
Then he steps back, creating distance and leaving me cold again, but… burning.
“I don’t—”
“Just wear it. I promise I’m only being nice because my parents taught me to be a gentleman. It’s nothing personal.”
Fine, then. It’s almost as comfy as my oversized jumper.
Cavin stands beside me, his hands jammed into his pockets. He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he stares through the large arch-shaped window that overlooks the ocean cliffs. Wind howls somewhere below, ripping through the trees like teeth.
I want to walk through those cliffs. Barefoot, maybe. Stand right at the edge, where the sea spits salt into your face and the rocks disappear into foam.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, honestly. It’s really stunning.
“Thank you.” Cavin gives the barest nod. He accepts the compliment with quiet gratitude, no smile. I might think it a peace offering if I were the kind of fool who believed in those.
“Is that Holy Family?” I ask, leaning just enough to see the tall steeple rising beyond the far edge of the garden.
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Interesting. Near Holy Family is the graveyard I’ve walked alone, time and time again, despite my mother’s warnings.
I don’t mean to laugh. It just bubbles up, bright, stupid, ill-timed. The kind of laugh my mother would slap clean out of my mouth.
Cavin whips his head toward me. His expression cuts like wire. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just that…” My cheeks flush, and I hate the heat of it. “Well, nothing.”
Why do I laugh when I shouldn’t? Why do I always choke in the moment and spit out something inappropriate?
“Say it,” he growls. His eyes narrow. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just… ironic that a house like this backs right up to Holy Family. And… well, your family, and mine, to be clear, are anything but… holy.”
He studies me for a second too long, then huffs a bitter laugh and shakes his head. Mutters something I can’t make out—just enough to drag me back to childhood.
Back to that familiar sting. The kind where people laugh and you don’t know why. You laugh too late, too loud—you’re the butt of a joke you didn’t hear.
My fingernails scrape my palms when my hands fist. I’m not the little Goody Two-Shoes I was back then, cowered by the likes of him.
“Stop it,” I tell him. “We’re not at St. Albert’s anymore, Cavin.”
His eyes dart to mine, alert and cautious. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You can’t bully me like you did back then. Okay?”
He blinks as if surprised. Was it my words or my willingness to talk back to him that took him off guard?
“I didn’t fucking bully you,” he says quickly. “Don’t say that.”
The air goes too bright and too loud. The sound of my own breathing starts to grate.
I can’t look at him without my pulse kicking out of rhythm, and I hate that. So I start counting because I know how this works.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Seven light fixtures down this hallway.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Ten stairs to the landing.
One, two, three portraits on the wall.
Tap pocket.
One, two, three, four.
Something flickers across his expression that I can’t read, before he turns and walks away as if he didn’t just watch me fall apart in real time.
And I can still hear it—the echoes from childhood.
Why does she count like that?
Why does her nose twitch?
Why does she have to watch everything?
“Down here,” he says, like we didn’t just start in this hallway, and I’m not standing here raw and stimming in front of him.
Why Cavin? Why did his mother send him to give me the tour?
It could’ve been Bronwyn, or Seamus, or literally anyone else.
But it’s Cavin. Always fucking Cavin.
He tries to make small talk.
“How’s your sister?”
“Alright,” I say, too quickly. I’m surprised he remembered I had one.
He blows out a slow exhale.
“You still talk to anybody from St. Albert’s?”
“No,” I answer, too fast, too sharp, like I’ve rehearsed it. Like the idea of those people still clinging to me burns.
It does though. It really, really does.
He glances over his shoulder. Casual. Calculating.
“You?” I ask, trying to keep the tone light. Trying to match him beat for beat.
But truthfully? I want to know.
Does he still have the hassle of boys trailing behind him? Still worshipped like some twisted Peter Pan, leading them straight into a Neverland full of crime and consequences?
“I…” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Of course, I have to.”
Right. He’s mafia, isn’t he?
St. Albert’s wasn’t just a school but a training ground. And I guess while I carved out some space for myself and stayed in the shadows, he never had that luxury.
Why does that make me feel sorry for him?