Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be alive. To be touched by hands that care. To be loved. To be breathing the same air as Sosie again has changed everything. Our connection lies in the distraction when I should be focused. In the empty spot between my arms where she should be. She’s the proof that soulmates exist.
The background noise of the TV is only a mere distraction as I sit on the couch and scroll to her name in my phone’s contact list. I never blocked her, but she blocked me. I only found out when I slipped up once and texted her. Too much whiskey and a bad night at work left me something I’d worked hard not to be. Penetrable. The stab to my chest wasn’t real, but the pain it caused was still pulsing from the fallout six months earlier. It was not the best time in my life.
“Get your mind back on your own life, Keats.” I look up. Tiny snowflakes flurry past the window. The sweater and pajama pants have kept me warm, along with the apartment’s solid heating. Having unreliable heat in my old apartment left me wearing layers upon layers to stay warm or walking around in my underwear when it was blazing in August. I chuckle, remembering how it had a mind of its own.
Now the snow only reminds me of Sosie. She was bundled in her coat when she left, but she wasn’t wearing much else to protect herself otherwise. Chain mail couldn’t protect her from her parents. They always manage to find her Achilles’ heel to hurt her.
What if they didn’t leave the city? Or got wind of how last night turned out for jackass from the pub? She hasn’t checked in, and worry twists in my gut as dread sets in. Is she okay? Did she get out? Was she threatened again? Fuck.
To calm the tides of concern rippling through my veins, I pace the apartment. Should I go over to make sure she’s alright? That’s the worst thing I could do. It undermines what she’s trying to accomplish. It would defeat her independence to do this on her own. She’s capable. She’s stronger than she realizes, considering the shit she’s been through. Hell, she’s stronger than all of us. Most people would have crumpled under the weight of the pressurized threats.
But what did she have to give up in exchange for maintaining her survival? Her freedom to choose her own fate. Is she doing that now? Will she choose me to go along for the ride?
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I hit my knee on the couch diving for it. It falls to the floor as I go tumbling after it with an achy shin, and I’m pretty sure I have a newly acquired concussion from catching myself on the hardwoods with my head. “Fuck.”
Reaching under the table, I grab the phone and hold it up to read the message: New deals on phones this holiday season. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Come on, Spark, call me.”
My phone rings as if the heavens actually listened. And when I see her name on the screen, I sit up and answer, “Hello?” Too fast. Too high-pitched to sound like I wasn’t waiting around for this call. I clear my throat and lower my voice. “Hello?”
Laughter trills through the speaker like music to my ears. “Are you okay, Poet?”
Despite myself, I smile. “I’m good, fine, never better.” The foot I shove in my mouth clams me up, but getting out of sounding like a raging idiot is a different story. Pushing up to my feet, I sink into the couch. Dropping my head into my hand, I ask, “How are you?”
My pulse quickens in the silence.
She says, “I got my stuff without issue, and now I’m in a hotel room lying on top of the bed and savoring every second of being free.”
We didn’t discuss the plan for when she left. It wasn’t mine to have a vote or decide what happens next in her life. I’m not owed an explanation, and I have no right to demand a say, but hearing that she checked into a hotel still comes as a surprise. And stings, though logic tells me I don’t have a right to that reaction either.
What do I have with her?
Where do I stand in her eyes?
After one night of reuniting, where do we go from here?
“Do you have a nice view?” What the fuck am I saying? I’m not banned from broaching important topics, but what issues cross the line?
“Umm. It’s okay. I wasn’t thinking about the request when I checked in. I was just happy I got away with it.”
“I am, too.” I finally feel the relief that she exhibits in her tone. “I’m proud of you.” It was the simplest phrase, four words that hit deeper than she could have realized when she said them. Saying them to her comes easily when I decenter my own concerns. I am proud of her. It’s interesting to root for a person I haven’t known as long as some people in my life, but the connection runs so deeply that I’ve been fully invested in her success since the moment we met. She deserves it. She needs this. And I need her.