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 bet Eason would die for a kiss from Anya.
Die for one. That phrase catches me for a moment. He wants to die. He wants to go. Why does he linger?
Why do any of us?
Because we’re survivors and we can’t seem to shake the idea that life is the prize.
And with this bit of truth, I settle. And forget about kissing and the man sleeping next to me.
I just close my eyes and drift…
When I wake, the sun is going down.
I’ve never thought much about sleep. It’s something you do at the end of the day so you can get up again in the morning. But I dunno… I might have to change my opinion about sleep. Because waking up in Eason’s bed—alone, he’s not here—I feel… like maybe… maybe there’s more to than what I’ve experienced.
I’ve never been hard to wake. There is no lingering in bed in the camp. And once I got here, I didn’t see the difference in sleeping out on the Rock, or in the jungle, or in the condo.
But a bed… this bed, in particular… yeah. I get it.
I moan a little and turn over, ready to keep my sleep marathon going.
But then I hear Eason’s voice coming from somewhere else in the condo. And this jolts me out of the dream world of forever sleep.
I open my eyes and squint a little, like this will help me hear him better.
He’s on the phone, obviously. But I can’t make out much else. So I get out of bed, tiptoe through the condo, and realize he’s out on the terrace and he’s left the door open, so that’s why I can hear him.
I step carefully as I move closer.
Eason lets out a sigh. But he’s as careful about it as I was stepping across his floor. “Yeah. OK. No. It’s good. I’m fine.” There’s a pause here. “Yeah. She’s here.” He scoffs. “Fuck off.” Another pause. “But listen, in all seriousness—” This is when he turns and sees me. His smile feels genuine. And he doesn’t act like he was just caught doing something wrong. Just keeps going with the conversation he’s having. “I’m fine. It’s all fine.” But here he lets out a long breath, and this time it’s loud.
I’ve been around silent people most of my life. I speak the language written between the lines fluently. And I hear everything in this one exhale. All of his struggle is in that breath.
“Right. We’ll talk more later.” He ends the call and walks back inside, closing the terrace doors to keep the AC in. “So, listen. I think you should just move in.”
“I did move in. Didn’t I?”
“No, I mean everything. You’re living in a closet, Irina. Just stay here with me. It’s huge, right? I got lots of extra room.”
This tells me everything about the conversation he just ended. He asked them to come home. For whatever reason, they said no. Or they can’t. And then whoever that was—Wade or Davis—asked if I was still here. Not because they care about where I am, but because they don’t want him to be alone.
He’s that precarious right now. That much on the edge.
“OK.”
“Really? No argument or nothing?” It’s not another breath. It’s not that obvious. But he does something here with his eyes, and the line of his mouth, and the way the muscles in his shoulders relax.
“My place is…” I love my little South Beach closet. I really do. But I make myself say the next few words. “It’s… awful and this is… lovely.” Which is not a lie. But I’m just not into luxury. I really am OK with a rice-mat bed and clothes folded neatly and stacked against the wall.
But I feel like he’s about to give up and I don’t want him to give up. We’re just getting to know each other. He’s offered to be my first kiss. A kind of tester boyfriend. Which, I’m not gonna lie, feels like a fair trade. Because I am twenty years old and I don’t understand any of it. How to be an adult in this world. How to plan a future that is more than me. I don’t get it. And maybe Eason is not the most together guy when it comes to mental health, but he’s got a good handle on the outside world. Just like I’ve got a good grasp of the inside one.
“Do you have a car?”
He blinks at me, not sure about the change in subject. “Yeah. Why?”
“Well, I was thinking we could drive over to my place. You know, so we don’t have to carry boxes back.”
“We could probably fit all your clothes in two backpacks, Irina. We’re not driving. You’re still in training, aren’t ya?”
Still? I don’t think one marathon counts as training, but maybe this is what he needs? An excuse? Maybe I’m his excuse. So I say, “Sure. I’m up for killing worthless billionaires. Why not.”