Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
The reminder gives me a little of the courage I've been lacking for the last couple of days. The ground feels like it's solidifying beneath my feet again. And I let myself hope, perhaps for the first time, that Trystan and I can have a future without it changing everything.
That's what I want, more than anything.
Alittle after six, I'm in the passenger seat of his truck with his hand laced with mine. I have no idea where we're going. He won't tell me, but he's grinning like he doesn't have a care in the world.
"Not even a tiny hint?" I plead.
"Nope." He grins over at me, his eyes light. "You'll just have to see when we get there."
"You're no fun."
"And you're terrible with surprises," he retorts softly.
I turn my face to the window to hide a smile. He's right. I am terrible with surprises. Who has the patience for all of that? Definitely not me. I want to know everything immediately. How else are you supposed to plan?
"You remember spending your ninth birthday hiding in the treehouse?" he asks after a moment, peeking over at me again.
"Revisionist history," I object. "I wasn't hiding in the treehouse. I was protesting the whole surprise part of the day." Having thirty people jump up from behind furniture and shout 'Happy Birthday' at me freaked me out. I ran out and hid in the treehouse to cry. It wasn't my finest moment. But no one has ever made the mistake of throwing me a surprise party again.
Thank God.
"Uh-huh." He chuckles. "I brought you cake because you wouldn't come back in. You didn't want anyone to know we made you cry."
"I felt bad about it," I mumble.
"I know you did." His thumb drifts across my knuckles. "That's the thing about you, Coco. No matter how upset you are, you're always thinking about everyone else. You're a savage little firecracker most of the time, but no matter how many times you ignite, you always think about everyone else."
I peek over at him to see him watching me.
"I want you to learn to think about yourself now," he murmurs, rolling to a stop at a light. He reaches over, the back of his hand sliding down the side of my face. "Don't worry about what anyone else thinks or wants. Leave that part to me. All that matters is what you want."
"I…" I lick my suddenly dry lips and then nod. "I can do that."
"Good." He grins like he's proud of me. "I know you're worried about how shit is going to go with your family, but I want you to leave that to me. I'll talk to Wyatt. I'll handle your dad. All you need to do is worry about you."
I stare at him for a moment and then smile slightly. "You know what I missed most when we weren't talking?"
"What?"
"This. You." I lean my head against the window, watching him. The way he's so relaxed in the seat beside me. The way his eyes flicker from the road to my face again and again. The softness in his eyes every time they catch mine. "I missed just sitting beside you, talking to you. You always knew me better than I knew myself. You knew what I was thinking and feeling, sometimes before I did."
"That's because you've always been the only thing I could see." His gaze drifts to me again, his expression dead serious. "You know how many times I showed up over the years, just to make sure you saw me, too? Just to make sure you couldn't forget me?"
"I never forgot you," I whisper, my heart in my throat. "No matter how many times you made me angry, I still…" I trail off before the truth slips out—those three little words I feel all the way to my soul. "I still wanted you around," I say instead.
I think he hears what I don't say, though, the words I swallow back. His eyes darken, his expression unfathomably deep. His hand tightens around mine like he's trying to keep us right here together. But I'm not going anywhere. I'm done running. I'm done fighting. I'm done being anything other than what I was always meant to be: his.
Ten minutes later, he pulls into the packed parking lot of a carnival. I stare at the chaos of the place with wide eyes, a ridiculous smile on my face.
"A carnival?" I ask.
"They were always your favorite. You ate too much cotton candy and were scared of every goddamn ride, but you still begged to go every single time one came to town," he murmurs, backing into a parking spot on the edge of the dusty lot before killing the engine.
"That was a lifetime ago."
"Not that long ago." He grins over at me. "You still fucking love them, Coco. I know you do."