Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
He’s going to wear my number as I wear it.
My eyes burn, and I clutch my phone tighter.
Baby, did you do this for me?
I squeeze my eyes closed, breathing through the thin thread of hope threatening to take over.
When I first left for school last summer, after Deaton died, we talked a few times that first month, then weekly, and that quickly turned into every damn day.
I liked it like that. I want it like that.
But the girl has gone radio silent on me, and I haven’t figured out what to do other than let her. I stopped hounding her because I didn’t want to push. That’s what Noah did, right? When things got tough with Ari. He gave her space and waited like the saint he is.
I’m not like Noah, though.
I’m not strong enough for this shit.
I’m freaking the fuck out and constantly stopping myself from walking out of class, driving my ass to Oceanside, and forcing her hand. I’ve almost done it. Four times now, I’ve found myself sitting in my driver seat, keys in the ignition, but each time, something’s held me back.
The sad part is I’m pretty sure it’s not my deciding to give her the space she’s clearly after.
No, it’s straight-up fear.
What if it’s not a little extra space she’s looking for…but a set of shears to cut us off completely? If I go to her and make her talk to me, she could say those words.
Call me weak, which wouldn’t be a lie.
I’m already weak when it comes to her, so if she cuts me out, it will only get worse.
My eyes fall to the photo again.
This means something, though, doesn’t it?
She told Paige what she wanted, and what she wanted was my number included with his name.
She didn’t tell me, didn’t show me, but maybe she will?
Maybe tomorrow when I get off that field, I’ll have one of those texts from her, the ones I looked forward to all last season but have yet to get this time around.
Too bad when the end of the game comes, the only messages I have are from my parents. Suddenly, the epic win under my belt and relief in my hand, thanks to the cortisone shot my trainer gave me after Coach saw me wringing it out on my way off the field, mean jack shit.
The weight on my chest is heavier than I expected, a fucked-up sense of dread burning through me like whiskey without a chaser.
My restraint slips, and I send a message of my own.
Me: Happy first Halloween, little man. I wish I could have seen you tonight.
I hit Send and toss my phone in my bag, where I plan to leave it for the night, the thought of no response too much for me right now.
There’s a huge after-party happening tonight to celebrate the end of Oregon’s reign over us, but I won’t be there.
How can I celebrate a win when I’m drowning in the weight of loss?
I need to get some shit off my chest, have a conversation I should have had a while ago, and I know just where to go to have it.
My phone rings for the third time, but I ignore it, just like the others, and finally put my Tahoe in park.
The minute my seat belt is thrown off, my skin pricks with nerves, and I close my eyes, dropping my head back against the headrest. My knee starts to bounce, and the ache in my hand decides to flare up again, likely from the death grip I had on the wheel the whole drive.
Our quarterly check-ins from our professors went in this morning, and I know the minute I get back to campus I’ll be fucked in yet another aspect of my life, but I’m not going to worry about that right now.
I drove all through the night for a reason.
Pulling in a lungful of air, I step from the vehicle. As if this shit wasn’t ominous already, a storm cloud rolls overhead, rumbling its warning of what’s to come.
I’ve never been real good with warnings, though. Never been able to switch to chill mode like my friends. I run at a hundred all day, every day, in every aspect of my life. It’s likely what got me here, and while I can’t say it’s a comfortable place to be, I wouldn’t trade it. Incessant, overbearing sense of fucking failure or not, I want every part of it.
It can only be a fraction of what she’s felt over the year, right?
My feet meet the curb, and I look to the sky, praying for the first time in a long time I’m not making a mistake, while knowing he and I would be the only people aware of it if I were.
Before I can bitch out or tell myself this is stupid and solves nothing, I push forward, counting the rows vertically, then horizontally until I’m stepping in front of a stone plaque, so large I could have spotted it without the map ingrained in my mind.