Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I glance up again. Evans walks in looking every inch the professor he is while I turn on some Chase Atlantic in the background and keep it down so I can kind of hear what he has to say. Slow Down has just started to play when I notice Evans look up at the back of the room, the entrance to be exact. His face shifts, darkens. It’s not a normal look for him he seems almost—intimidated, which would be weird for a narcissist unless an even bigger one walked through the door and he’s acknowledging he’s bottom on the food chain. Maybe the president of the university walked in? Maybe the police? Is that sweat on his lip? What the hell?
I don’t turn around, though, because that would mean I cared, it would mean I was paying close attention to my professor/boyfriend’s clear freakout. So, I pretend to be bored. I keep listening to my music and then I see a pair of Dior Jordans—custom.
The Dior Jordans pause right next to my desk. I know those twenty-five thousand dollars shoes, I know them well. Because growing up, I know only one person who had an obsession with designer sneakers like that. Instantly my gut clenches. I can see his closet, I can smell the Aqua De Gio cologne again, I can feel the softness of his t-shirt. A shudder runs through my body. If I really concentrate, he’s warm. Not cold. Not dead. He’s flicking my nose, then leaning in and begging for a kiss. My heart instantly pounds in my chest as adrenaline courses through me. Not real. Not here. Not him.
I’m instantly curious if we have a new professor or student. It would be weird to join this class halfway through the semester, and I know everyone in my major.
Students around the room start whispering to each other, some point, others look at Evans waiting to see what he’s going to say. I turn the music almost completely silent. The whispering is almost louder at this point than the song. What the hell is going on?
The hair on the back of my neck goes up. Why are people looking at me? Is it because he’s by my seat? Or because I haven’t acknowledged him yet?
Enough that every instinct I have starts screaming when the shoes don’t move forward. I steal a glance at Evans he’s not looking at me.
Slowly, I look up.
And he’s here.
No.
The thought hits so fast I nearly laugh.
Not because it’s funny.
Because it’s impossible. It’s fucking impossible.
For one insane second I actually think I’m hallucinating or that I’ve died and gone to hell because how is this even happening?
Maybe it was the weird breakfast.
Maybe the knock ’em dead comment conjures ghosts.
Maybe I finally snapped from stress.
Maybe grief is a lot more creative than therapists give it credit for. I almost laugh because wouldn’t that make my therapist give up their job? I can conjure up ghosts. Clearly.
Because the man standing in the doorway died seven years ago. I saw his casket. I stood in the rain. I’m dead. My heart must have stopped from stress. This is impossible and yet…
My pulse stutters.
The classroom disappears.
The chatter.
The fluorescent lights.
The professor.
Everything.
Gone.
All I can hear is the blood rushing through my ears.
He looks older, obviously.
Taller somehow, even though at seventeen he was six four.
Crueler, like life sharpened every smooth edge he used to have and left nothing behind making his jawline impossibly firm right along with every muscle on his body.
But it's him.
My. God.
It's him.
The same wavy dark hair, same broad shoulders,
Same full mouth that used to curve into a smile right before he got himself into trouble, which was often. Same lips that used to taunt me every single time he got close and said he was going to steal a kiss one day.
His smell is different and yet it’s still familiar, like he’s using the same cologne but different body wash and I hate that I’m fixating on it, but smell is one of the strongest memories we have and I’m suddenly back in his room, he’s almost kissing me, and then the shots fire. I’m writing the damning words, and he’s getting buried.
My chest tightens so violently I have to grip the edge of my desk; my fingers dig in so tight I’ve lost all feeling. My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard it might burst. I can’t slow my way-too-rapid breathing.
Because I know that scent. My body is physically unable to not react. My pulse can’t help but hammer beneath my skin, my breath can’t help but come in short small gasps, my skin can’t help but tingle.
I hate that I know that scent more than any scent in this entire universe. I hate that it used to make me laugh, cry, that it made me want more than I’ve ever wanted, with such a desperation shame almost always followed.