Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
I could never imagine—
Strong arms wrap around me and Cill turns me in his arms, holding me tighter as I try to bury my face in his shirt. It only makes me cry harder. It’s been so long since anyone held me like this. He rocks me as he holds me, kissing my hair. “Don’t worry, Hellcat. Don’t worry. Everything’s all right now.”
“I’m so sorry.” Embarrassment heats my cheeks. “I can’t control it … I just.” My throat is tight and the right words won’t come. “Neither of you told me.” I barely get out the words as Cill loosens his grip slightly to look down at me.
“Why would I, Kat? You couldn’t do anything to help me. No one could.”
My hands tremble as I furiously wipe away the tears and try to stop. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do this.” He kisses my cheek. “And I don’t want to hear you say that to me ever fucking again.”
I nod. His grip on me is strong. Stronger than it ever was when we were younger. His years in prison hardened him, aged him. They made his body different than I remember, yet it still feels familiar enough that I crave it.
His hand stays on my back, rubbing soothing circles as I sniffle and make a cup of coffee like I didn’t just have a fucking breakdown at the very beginning of our conversation.
Even as I scoop sugar out for the cup, my hand trembles. I just can’t imagine, day in and day out, trying not to die.
“Now you tell me something,” he murmurs into my ear. Cill doesn’t release me as easily as I thought he would. He squeezes me tighter for a second before he lets me go. It hurts to push away from him. I steady myself with a hand on his shoulder and he lets me.
“I—” It’s so difficult to speak, even more difficult to focus on one thing. But through my racing thoughts, one truth begs to be spoken. Something that might make him happy. “I stopped coming … but I wrote to you.”
His hand stops and falls, leaving a chill where his warm touch had soothed me. “I didn’t get any letters.”
* * *
I have to brace myself and gather my composure in order to show him. I don’t like that it requires putting any distance between us, but he needs to see this. Shaking off the sadness and putting an end to it, I head to the other end of the kitchen. If I’m ever going to tell him the truth, he has to know that I didn’t give up on him. As if I ever could. I never stopped needing him. I just didn’t have it in me to face him after what happened.
I didn’t deserve him anymore. I still don’t.
“I kept the notebooks in a drawer next to the sink.” I speak out loud, to drown out my thoughts, and I doubt he can hear me. Sniffling, I reach in and pull out two worn and used-up notebooks. They’re nothing special and a number of pages are smudged and crinkled from tears that fell on them during the harder nights.
I present both of them as Cillian stands behind me. Turning to him, I put them in his hands. “I wrote something to you every night.” My words are barely a murmur, my tone somber.
He opens the first and closes it quickly. “Why’d you stop coming? Is that in here?”
I shake my head. It’s not. I can’t even look him in the eye.
He opens it back up.
* * *
I don’t know what he’ll find. I can’t remember what I said when I wrote to him, but I remember how I feel. I confided in those pages because it was the only way to keep surviving without him. The notebooks would hold my emotions and I’d be able to go about my life.
Every night, I wrote something down about Cill that I missed, or something I wanted him to know.
It was the only way to keep him from haunting my dreams. I had sound nights and even dreams sometimes when I wrote to him. If I forgot, I’d wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. I know that sounds crazy. It’s true. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from telling him that, because I know it sounds ridiculous.
I can’t help reading them upside down as Cill does. I never truly thought I’d get to experience this moment. There was always a chance I wouldn’t see his eyes moving over the page and his hands holding the edges of the notebook so carefully.
* * *
Sept 5
* * *
We went to get our palms read today and I remember the groove on your palm that’s split. You remember how I showed you that one time? When Missy showed me how to do palm readings? I think you might have believed her, even if you pretended to be skeptical. I miss her. I miss the club. I miss you the most and I was thinking about that groove. She said that when the lifeline groove is split it means there’s going to be an uncertain time. Do you remember that? Do you think that’s what this is? It’s only a moment that’s uncertain? ’Cause if it is, I’m ready for it to end, Cill. I miss you. I miss you so fucking much. I don’t know how to make it right, though. I wish I could hold your hand right now. I hope you feel it. Even if I’m too fucking chickenshit to call you or go to you … I hope you can feel me holding your hand. I love you.