Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I consider this. There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of secrets left. But the worst one is the simplest: “I’m terrified you’ll change your mind. That you’ll decide I’m not worth the trouble, and leave me.”
He reaches across the table again, palm up. I slide my hand into his, and the fit is so perfect it’s almost indecent.
“I won’t,” he says. “Even if you try to force me out.”
The promise hangs there, stitched into the air, and for the first time all night I believe him.
We don’t linger over dinner. It’s too intense, too raw, to keep the performance going any longer than necessary. Thomas pays in cash, leaving a tip so obscene the waitress’s eyes go wide. We walk out together, side by side, the wind off the river cutting through our coats.
Outside, the city is weirdly quiet. It’s not late, but the world feels emptied out for just the two of us. Thomas puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me down the street. The touch is light, not possessive, but it sets off fireworks under my skin.
We don’t say much as we walk. Every few feet, his arm brushes against mine, and every time it happens, I feel a jolt, like the world is trying to remind me what I almost lost. When we reach his apartment building, he pauses on the sidewalk.
“Come in?” he asks, not even trying to hide the hope in his voice.
I hesitate, not because I don’t want it, but because I do. So badly. “You think it’s a good idea?”
He shrugs. “Probably not. But I’m not good at walking away from you.”
I feel my face go pink. “Maybe we just talk then.”
He nods. “Maybe we do.”
We’re silent in the elevator, but the air between us is electric, and the moment we’re inside, Thomas pulls me close. He doesn’t kiss me, not right away—he just wraps his arms around me and holds on, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish again.
“I missed you, Andie,” he says, voice muffled against my hair.
I close my eyes, sinking into him. “I missed you more.”
He laughs, low and rough. “Impossible.”
I tilt my head up and kiss him, not soft this time but hungry, desperate. His hands go to my face, cradling it, and I feel the scrape of his stubble against my cheek. I want to remember everything—his smell, the warmth of him, the way he tastes like hope and regret and a hundred tiny promises.
We make it to the couch, tangled together. This isn’t sex, not exactly, but it’s close—every touch, every kiss, is a laying-down of arms, a ceasefire. I want to be closer, to crawl under his skin, to become a part of him so he can never forget me again.
When we finally come up for air, Thomas is breathing hard. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before, like I’m new and wild and entirely unpredictable.
“Let’s do it better this time,” he says, his voice thick.
I nod, smiling through the tears I didn’t even know I was crying. “Yes. Let’s.”
He kisses the top of my head, then tucks me under his arm, holding me there like a secret he’s finally ready to keep.
We sit like that for a long time, watching the world move past the window. The city is still out there, loud and bright and full of ways to get lost. But in this room, for the first time in forever, I am found.
I turn to Thomas, resting my head on his shoulder. “You know what’s weird?” I say.
He squeezes me, gentle. “What?”
“I feel like I can breathe again. Like really breathe. Like I was underwater, and unable to move, speak, or do anything really. But now, I can.”
He kisses my temple, his lips lingering there. “That’s all I want for you, Andie. I adore you, and everything about you, sweetheart.”
It’s not a happy ending. Not yet. But it’s the beginning of something, and maybe that’s enough.
We’ll figure out the rest. Together.
For now, that’s all the promise I need.
EPILOGUE: ONE YEAR LATER
Andie
The penthouse glows golden: every bulb hidden behind frosted glass or cut crystal, refracted a thousand times into a haze that blurs the edges of people and things. The air is lemony with polished marble and the scent of canapés. Someone has rigged twinkle lights over the long white-linen tables, and every glass on every table seems to be full, and every hand finds one before it’s empty for more than a breath.
It was Stella’s idea to host my graduation party at Thomas’s place—“bigger rooms, better booze, and we can kick everyone out when it’s over,” she’d said—and now the building’s security desk is issuing paper wristbands to guests and checking IDs at the elevator. Upstairs, the room is a dreamscape: guests in suits and cocktail dresses, catering staff moving silently between the groups, Stella floating between them all in a sheath so white it’s almost reckless. At the center of it all, I hover in a navy-blue slip dress that fits like spilled ink, my blonde hair loose and wavy over my shoulders, my honors diploma rolled in a ribbon and jammed under my arm. My glass keeps going empty, but there’s always a hand to refill it, sometimes mine, sometimes not.