Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
I bit down on my lip. Arya had been and remained a wonderfully odd girl. But for the first time, I also recognized that we weren’t all that different. That both our parents had sinned greatly, even if in different ways.
“In this alternate universe, I’m looking forward to you giving me a nephew. You know I love children. Even considering having one myself. What’s that? Have I met anyone myself?” She frowned, shooting me a quick look. I straightened my back, like a pupil.
“Nope. No one worth mentioning. I mean, there is this one guy, but he is off limits. He says the chemistry is stronger than us. But as you know, I flunked that subject in high school.”
She talked to Aaron a few more minutes before coming to sit beside me. I opened a bag of chips and passed it between us. She munched, extending her legs and lacing them at the ankles.
“How’d he die?” I asked, because I needed to. I wasn’t supposed to know.
“SIDS.”
“I’m sorry.”
“At least I didn’t get to know him. It’d have hurt a million times over, I assume.”
Depended on the person. I had yet to miss my mother.
“Do you visit him often?” I asked. We were both staring at Aaron’s grave. Looking at one another seemed too . . . raw.
“More often than I should. Or so people keep telling me. A part of me is angry at him for bailing on the shit show. I need someone to be here, you know?”
“You have someone to be here,” I said, with honesty and openness that should’ve frightened me but somehow didn’t.
Suddenly, I remembered something. I passed Arya the bag of chips, stood up, found two small stones by a flower pot, and put them on Aaron’s grave.
“So he’ll know we came to visit.” I heard the smile on Arya’s face behind me and turned to look at her. “I used to do that all the time. How’d you know?” Her eyes glittered.
“Who said I’m not Jewish?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Your name. Christian,” she laughed.
My fake name, more like.
Tread carefully now, a voice inside me warned. But I was too far gone to listen.
“Someone once told me about this tradition.”
I sauntered back, taking my seat next to her, our shoulders brushing.
“Hey, Christian?”
“Yes?”
“It’s my birthday today.”
I know.
“Happy birthday, Arya.” I kissed the crown of her head as she propped her cheek on my shoulder, looking straight ahead at the conveyor belt of businesspeople gliding along Park Avenue. “And happy birthday, Aaron, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ARYA
Present
We didn’t kiss again.
That, I couldn’t let happen. Not if I wanted to survive Christian Miller. And already, I knew my days would be grayer, bleaker, once he was gone.
He walked me home in dignified silence. We both blew wispy condensation against the crisp air, like children.
I knew I should be terrified of opening up, giving him an exclusive glimpse into my brand of crazy. After all, newly thirty-two-year-olds weren’t supposed to celebrate their birthdays at a cemetery with men they hardly knew. Especially not men like Christian—who was hell bent on destroying what remained of my dysfunctional family.
When we reached my door, Christian ran his hand over my cheek. It was warm and rough. I hadn’t been with a man for over a year. Not since a Tinder date that had started with awkward sex and ended with the guy weeping on my shoulder about his ex, who wouldn’t take him back. Goose bumps prickled the back of my neck. I breathed Christian in. Exhaled my inhibitions out.
“Thanks for letting me be there for you today,” Christian said.
“Thanks for not running for the hills, screaming.” I brushed my shoulder over his, the way he had after our dinner date. Honestly, I forgot the last time someone other than Jillian had done something so sweet for me.
“You’re not as broken as you want me to think, Arya.” Christian smiled, and boy, could I get used to that smile.
“Am too.”
“Well, I’m worse,” he offered.
“Prove it,” I challenged. “Tell me what’s your brand of messed up.”
“Maybe. Later.” But it sounded so much like never I didn’t want to press him for more.
“Changed your mind about us yet?” His voice had a way of moving over my skin, like fingertips.
“Not in the least.”
“You will.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
“Why not? I’m a great swimmer.”
And thus, Christian kissed the tip of my nose and strolled off into the night, taking a small chunk of my heart with him.
The next day, at work, the missing piece of my heart made my chest feel empty. I wanted to see Christian again, to ask for it back. Maybe it was because he’d come to the cemetery with me. Or maybe it was our kiss the night before. Perhaps Christian was just a distraction from the real disaster encroaching into my life. My father’s case was spiraling out of control. I’d given up on social media, newspapers, and news websites and declined all social invitations. I’d even gone so far as only communicating with my mother via text. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t a bulletproof plan.