Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“I wonder what the hell got into him,” Keeg says. “He hates you.”
“From what I’ve heard, he hates everyone,” Aiden adds, probably having heard stories from Marty.
“I thought Ryan was going to kill him for starting shit with your brother,” Jaxon says.
They’re not wrong, but what they don’t see—and what I’m pretty sure of—is that more than anyone else, Miles hates himself.
Stay away, stay away, stay away.
I don’t know who I’m kidding. There’s not a chance in hell I’m doing that.
“So anyway, don’t give him shit. He was trying to do a good thing.” I’m hoping to soften them toward Miles, though I’m not sure how soft I should be toward him myself. All the shit that went down last night was…fucked up? Hot? Warning signs all over the place? Intriguing? All of the above.
“I don’t know why you’re defending him. He lost his shit on you for tripping and then ignored you all summer,” Keegan points out.
Again, he’s not wrong, but they don’t know about him helping me home.
“You’re too nice.” Leo crosses his arms. “I don’t trust that guy.”
“You smile and the world is a different color, lighter.”
Yeah, I don’t know if I trust him either, but I want more of him, maybe for the reasons Cedric said, and maybe simply because I can’t stand the thought of being disliked, or maybe because there really is more to him than people see. All I know is, I can’t wait to see him in class this week. I never know what to expect with Miles, and the masochistic part of me wants more.
7
Miles
“You have to really pack it,” Mom says, demonstrating with the snow on the front lawn as we work together on the head of our snowman. “Come on. A little tighter. There you go!”
In the back of my mind, there’s a realization that something’s not right, but I ignore it because all I want is to spend time with her.
She sneaks a peek at Dad, who’s working on the snowman’s body a few yards away.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea!” She scoops up some fresh snow and works it into a ball, a sneaky expression on her face. I already know what she’s planning, but Dad’s totally oblivious.
Once she has a decent-sized ball ready, she presses a finger to her lips and pushes to her feet, tucking the ball behind her back as she approaches him.
A snowball fight is about to ensue, so I’m already collecting snow for my own ball as she exclaims, “That’s coming along great! But you have a few twigs in the side here.”
“Where?” he asks, inspecting his work.
Oh, Dad.
He falls right for it, giving Mom her chance to nail him in the chest.
“Hey!” He scrambles to make his own snowball, fast enough to toss one against her back as she races toward me.
“Help me, Miles! Protect me, Miles!”
I spring into action, hopping to my feet and tossing my own, which lands on Dad’s forehead. It gives Mom time to make another, and soon it’s back and forth until Dad rushes us and picks Mom up, spinning her around.
“Miles, save me! Save me!”
I have another snowball in my hand, but her words stop me in my tracks, strike at something deep within me. Something that knows none of this is real. It was at one time, but not anymore.
Her words keep on in my head, “Save me! Save me!”
She rears her head back, howling with laughter, and I want to see that smile one last time, but it’s like my mind blocks it out.
I sit up quickly, my heart racing as I search around in the dark.
That might have seemed like a pleasant dream, but it’s in fact a recurring nightmare, a cruel trick my mind plays, giving me a beautiful moment where I can pretend she’s still alive and everything’s fine. But she’s gone, and nothing will ever be fine again.
I check the time on my phone—about four a.m., as usual, like my brain schedules these torture sessions. It’s one of the reasons why I work best in the morning, bright and early.
I slide out of bed, roll a joint, and take a much-needed hit, then head into my studio and rig my phone on the tripod Tatum set up. Once we started working together, he realized he needed a solution for mornings when he wasn’t here to record. He’ll have to edit it so my face isn’t in the frame, but that’s his business.
I don’t bother changing out of my pajama bottoms—though Tatum would prefer something sexier, like one of the jocks or briefs he got me. Regardless, what matters most right now is exorcising this nightmare from my mind. I already have a canvas set up, so I gather my paints and brushes and get to work.
I begin with what I saw that day—bright white and sky blue. I draw the essence of her smile, since I can never get the damn thing right when I attempt to draw it from memory—and this is why I like abstract work; I find it’s more honest than the most realistic portrait. Her smile is fluffy white clouds and budding pink roses with an indigo stream running through it all.