Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Let’s always ‘see’ each other.” His hand is somewhere on my belly, gently caressing over the thin material of my shirt. “I’ll do that for you, and you can do it for me.”
I smile into his hair. “Deal.”
After that, we drift into another lull.
The only light on in the room other than the glow of the TV is a small lamp next to the window, where my eyes drift.
Don’t know if it’s the weight of his body on mine or the blurry reflection off the window next to that lamp that has me thinking whether anyone on this whole planet knows me at all.
If I’m not, in so many ways, like a person who doesn’t exist.
At least not anymore.
Chase Holt has eaten the real me alive.
What do I have to offer this sweet, small-town guy other than a shell of what I used to be? Young Austin, he’s gone. Timothy would have made the best boyfriend for him. I don’t even have to spend energy imagining the life they’d share. Their road trips and exciting adventures … the song writes itself.
That beautiful, imaginary life of ours, it’s just another clichéd love song I haven’t written yet. Fodder for lonely fools in a crowd of brokenhearted fans, desperate to believe in love. People who’ll inevitably go home totally alone, then realize Monday morning that every love song ever written is just a dream you’ll wake up from eventually.
It’s not much longer before I realize Timothy’s fallen asleep.
And I’m wide awake.
Chapter 11.
Timothy
Nothing compares to the delight of stretching against a set of cool, crisp sheets in the morning. I lift my head from the pillow, a sleepy smile on my face, and am mortified to see my reflection in the mirror across the room from me and what my hair’s doing.
I’m so stunned by my crazy hair, it takes me half a second to remember where I even am. I notice Austin’s gone. The bathroom door’s open, so he isn’t in there. Did he sneak off to get breakfast? Maybe some coffee because the room coffee sucks?
I get to my feet, aware suddenly of an urgent need to pee my brains out, and hurry to the bathroom while poking some serious crusties out of the corners of my eyes.
Or at least that was the plan before I notice the letter and pen sitting on the table by the window.
I approach it, still poking at my eyes, then read.
Perhaps calling it a letter is doing it too much justice.
It’s more of a remark scratched on cheap hotel letterhead.
It reads: “I’m sorry, Timothy. You deserve more.”
I stand there for a very long time. I’m not gonna lie, I read the note about thirty times in a row. I forget I have to pee. I flip it over to see if there’s more. I set it down, then set myself down in the chair by the table, blinking, confused. The room feels deafeningly quiet. Every thought I have stings.
Then I pick the letter back up and stare at it.
“What the actual fucking fuck?” I blurt.
I’m out of the room the next minute, down the elevator, then standing at the front desk. The bumbling clerk insists the room is already paid for and I can just go.
He also kindly informs me that the free breakfast buffet is still open for another hour and ten minutes.
I’m outside. Harsh morning sunlight bakes my face. There’s a stickiness in the air that I hate instantly.
I wait for something to hit me. Epiphany. Heartbreak. Tears.
Nope. Nothing.
I’m just … annoyed.
“What the actual fucking fuck?” I mutter for the twenty-sixth time as I’m on the road zooming back home fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit. Yeah, I’m such a rebel. Watch out.
The note is on my backseat. His weirdly perfect handwriting is just a notch down from a literal printed font.
I’m sorry, Timothy?
You deserve more?
I pull into a gas station just outside of town and, after filling up the tank, sit in the car for a hot minute and debate texting him.
What would I say other than angry words or angry questions I could probably just answer myself?
He got spooked? I laid it on too thick, too much, too soon? He has a wife and kids back home? I’d believe just about anything.
Or nothing at all.
“I’m sorry, Timothy. You deserve more,” I repeat out loud, but do I?
By the time I get back home, I’m all out of everything: anger, sadness, questions. All I have is a ringing in my ears and a crick in my back. Guess those cushy hotel beds weren’t as lovely in reality as they looked on the surface.
Y’know. Like guys named Austin.
All dreamy and studly, then proving to be a total ghost.
I probably imagined him this whole time. Even at T&S’s. Billy was probably hiding in the office calling up my mom asking if she knew any good reason why her dear son would be pretending to bandage up an imaginary guy who bonked his head on a lamppost.