Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“No, that’s why I left it for her.” I grip the arms of my chair. “It wasn’t for you, Holden,” I lie.
“Of course not,” he says quietly.
“Okay. So we’re clear.” I wait, but there’s nothing more coming.
He joins me, ruminating in the cityscape, losing a final piece of us as New York slowly lights up like a firefly swarm.
The yawning quiet blanketed by the street noise stokes my anger.
“So that’s it, then? You wanted to apologize, but that’s all I get? You’ve done your job and you cut me loose. No more loose ends.” I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “Does it make you feel better?”
When he looks at me with his eyes darker than ever, there’s an emptiness that scares me. A blank, dead expression that scorches my throat.
“What else is there, Miss Blackthorn?” he whispers, defeated. “It’s the only thing left. I wish you’d realize that.”
Miss Blackthorn.
We’re right back where we started, the hate-to-love-to-hate cycle complete.
I hold my raging breath in and study his face, features I once knew like the back of my hand.
Just a few weeks ago, I could have found him in total darkness. I traced the shape of his cheeks, his nose, his jaw.
Now he’s a stranger again. Alien and glacial.
“Whatever, take the couch. Good night, Holden.” I turn back to the deepening sunset.
He takes the hint, thank God.
The chair groans under his weight as he pushes off it.
I close my eyes, and a few blazing tears slide down my cheeks, instantly turned to cold rain by the chill breeze sweeping past the building.
“Good night, Clee,” he says from behind me.
Then the door slides shut again and I’m alone in my desolation.
Holden Verity might have given me the bed, but I wonder if he’ll ever give me a sound sleep again.
I must have blacked out once or twice. An hour here and there somewhere in the hazy, itchy hornet’s nest of my overloaded mind. I wake up with grit in my eyes and an exhaustion in my bones.
By the time I drag myself out of bed, I’m pissed and tired, deprived of his forest scent.
Everything about me feels deprived.
Even in a separate room behind a door I locked, I feel like he’s everywhere, and I can’t get enough of this terrible man-drug.
I drag my brush through my hair, gazing into a mirror that’s perched on the wall slightly too high to be comfortable, then throw on a blouse and pants I’ve packed for the occasion.
It only felt right to dress up a little, though there’s nothing to celebrate here.
Reluctantly, I open my door and walk into the living room, ready to face the most bittersweet day of my life.
Holden slept on the sofa, but there’s no sign of it now.
Master control freak. The sofa cushions are pinned back into place and they look more plush than they did when we got here.
From the expression on his face, I’m guessing sleep didn’t come easy. At least we’re still sharing one thing.
Awkwardness thickens the air between us, along with the smell of coffee. He must’ve ordered breakfast from that bakery down the block.
My stomach grumbles.
“Morning,” I say, creeping through the space like a ghost.
“Morning,” he echoes.
I scan his face again, taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the lines on his face accented by a rough night. I bet I look just as rough.
There’s a level of sleep deprivation and sadness makeup can’t fix.
Standing in front of him feels like baring my soul.
So much left unsaid.
And I hate that he’ll be able to read every inch of heartache on my face just like I’m reading his.
God.
He nods at the paper coffee cup on the table, steam winding through the sippy hole at the top. “Got you some coffee. Cinnamon roll latte. Disgustingly sweet and had your name all over it.”
How kind.
I don’t say it, though. That would come too close to plunging back into feelings lined with razors.
I just nod gratefully and grab my coffee, then throw myself into the chair opposite him. It’s a good drink, just not lovely enough to take the edge off.
He nudges one of the paper bags toward me. A croissant and a small chocolate éclair. The intoxicating smell hits me and my stomach growls.
It’s been too long. I remember I barely picked at a chicken wrap I brought on the plane from a small grab-and-go place in the private terminal.
“No need to go into this hungry,” he says.
“Right. Thanks again.”
We both eat in near silence. My mouth burns every time I think about the things I want to say, the ridiculous words I want to hear.
After all this time, I wish he’d just admit he cares one more time. Tell me this distance is killing him, too.
But he doesn’t say one word as he wolfs down a breakfast wrap, and neither do I.