Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
I don’t even ask what it is. I’ve had every kind of protein shake the world could ever think up. Though not for a while now. So when I gulp it down, and realize it’s gross, I come up grimacing. “Uck. What is that?”
“Pea juice.” And then he laughs, and his laugh is even nicer than his smile. So I laugh too.
He takes a long drink, finishing it all it once, then puts his glass in the sink and fills it with water.
I drink the rest of mine too because I’m not sure if I’m still training, and if I am, then it’s my job to drink this shit, and then he takes my glass and puts it in the sink with his.
When he turns back, he leans against the counter with his arms folded. Just staring at me.
“What?” Now I’m the one tilting my head like a dog with a question.
He sighs, like he’s about to deliver bad news. But no words come out.
“Just… tell me.”
“It’s a long story. And a sad one too.” His eyes narrow when this last part comes out, and his face goes weird. Which makes my heart skip because his emotion, while still under control, is so… so heavy inside him, makes me suddenly overcome with anxiety over what he might say next.
Whatever it is, this is why he didn’t want to get out of bed.
I don’t know what to say. My throat is getting tight and beginning to ache like I might cry. And I don’t even have a reason to cry.
But that isn’t true. I want to cry because he wants to cry.
His hands come up to his face and he covers it, scrubbing them up and down as he takes a deep breath.
I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know how we got here, but I do know that Eason Dead Eyes might be the saddest person I’ve ever seen. And right now, he’s having a really hard time hiding it.
“What did I say?”
He’s making a noise I can’t quite describe. But then he pulls his hands away from his face, laughing as he stares out the window towards the sea. It’s not a happy laugh. “Ya know what’s funny, Irina?”
“What?”
“I feel like you the other night. When you found out that the evil was still there. It never left. You didn’t defeat it. All ya did was put it out of your mind for a while.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You thought that in saving yourself—by killing those men—you were… maybe… saving the others too. But ya didn’t save them. And it hurt to face that truth, didn’t it?”
I don’t know where he’s going with this, but it’s starting to sound like an accusation, so I’m starting to get defensive. “I have faced plenty of truth in my time. So I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I have nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.”
He slowly turns his head towards me. Looks me dead on. Green eyes narrowed down into angry slits. Immediately my body tenses up, ready for a fight. But he doesn’t come at me. He just spits out words. “I took some prizes. In the early days.” He’s practically snarling at me. “I had a better boat than the one I showed you.”
“So?” I growl right back. “I don’t know what that has to do with your sudden change in attitude.”
“I took them because they were offered. I took them because I earned them. I took them because I didn’t know, Irina. I. Didn’t. Know.”
“Know what, Eason? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I wouldn’t even think that his eyes could narrow down any more without closing, but he manages to do this, the muscles in his face tightening, his lips pressing together. He swallows.
“What?” Now I’m whispering. Because I’m afraid. Not of him, but of the words he’s trying to get out. Because whatever they are, they are something terrible. “What happened, Eason?”
It’s a dangerous question. One I don’t really want to ask because I really, really, really do not want to know what happened to him. I don’t. I don’t want to know.
His face goes blank for a moment, then he sucks in a breath and turns away from me. Walking out of the kitchen.
I stay where I am just to see what he does.
He paces the room, walking towards the ocean, then back towards me, then back to the ocean. He does this about twenty times, then he stops with his back to me.
I come out from behind the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room and stop just a few steps behind him. “You don’t have to tell me.” Because I don’t want to know. “We could just… run. Or… something. Train. Mats. Weights. Spar. Box—”
“Shut up, Irina.”
He doesn’t say it mean. He’s just telling me to stop making excuses for him. Because that’s all the training is. That’s all the training ever was. A way to shut down the memories, and the questions, and the evil of it all. It’s just the way we trick ourselves into feeling in control.