Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Did I sneak out, while he was sleeping?
Yes.
I did because I know that the road we’re about to go down is bumpy, and I need to decide if I’m all in this time. I can’t be half in. I can’t quit when times get tough. The choice now is simple: either I am giving myself over to Travis Phoenix for good, or I am walking away and this time, I’m not looking back.
An impossible choice, because it feels like both endings are going to hurt just as much as the other.
So how do I choose?
7
The next morning, when I am in Travis’s house getting ready to talk to him, I make my choice. It isn’t because of the moment we had together, or Chief’s stern words.
No, it’s the little box of toys in the corner, packed neatly. A box of toys gathering dust, because it has been a while since they have been pulled out. Above it, on the fireplace, is a picture of Travis and Amber. My heart swells as I stare at it, a feeling I can’t quite explain. She is so beautiful, so goddamn beautiful. She has these big blue eyes, and long blond hair, but her smile—oh, it’s his. It’s like looking at Travis when he was younger, when that cheeky grin would get me to do just about anything he wanted.
Looking at that photo, and the joy in his eyes, I know I have to help him get her back.
I need to make the choice to put the past behind me, because if I don’t, then I can never move forward.
I need to move forward, and to do that, I can’t look back.
It feels right to stay; everything inside me is telling me it’s the right thing.
That little girl has been through enough. She deserves a stable, loving father in her life, so I’m going to give her that.
I’m going to give him his baby back.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out he isn’t here, but instead of leaving, I go around and start picking up the remnants of his night: guitar picks on the coffee table, beer cans on the kitchen counter along with an empty takeout container of sweet and sour chicken. I sweep the floor and put a load of laundry on from his room. There is far too much hanging over the chairs and on the floor for me to do just one load, so I keep myself busy while it washes.
I pick up a heap more guitar picks and open the drawer to his bedside table to stuff them in. Inside is chaos, at first glance. But my eyes narrow in on something sticking out beneath a tangle of chargers, a small Ziploc bag. It's a crumpled little thing, half the size of my palm, filled with pills—some blue, some round, some scored in thirds by a pill-splitter. Next to it, two smaller bags filled with marijuana.
My first reaction is shock. I mean, I knew he was using again, but seeing it, really seeing it, seems to solidify something inside me. It’s like it all just became real. I feel sad for him. I can see him, right here, at two in the morning, swallowing a pill, thinking just one more, just until the set is over, just until the band's gone home and I can—
My fingers curl around the bag and bottles. I can’t let him feel that way again. I sit down on the edge of the bed with them in my hand and for a minute, I can't seem to move. Instead, I watch dust drifting in the sunlight that beams through his window, and it feels like if I just sat here long enough, maybe I'd figure out how we got here. How normal it becomes to coexist with self-destruction.
After the longest minute of my entire life, I stand up, walk straight to the bathroom, and flush everything. I don't even hesitate. The swirl of the water is soft, but the emptiness in the bottom of the toilet bowl when it's all gone is terrifying. I don’t know how he’ll react, but I know that I did something I hope one day he’ll thank me for.
I’m tossing the empty bottles in the bin when I hear the front door close. I have already texted and told him I’m here, so it’s not like I’m sneaking around his house uninvited. Heavy footsteps move through the kitchen. I walk out into the hallway, trying to keep my face neutral, trying not to freak him out before I have the chance to explain.
Travis stands in the kitchen doorway, his hair wild and his shirt clinging to his body like he ran the last ten blocks. There is something feral about him in the mornings, all jaw and tight muscle. It’s gorgeous, in this masculine, sleepy kind of way, and I want to pounce on him just to taste his lips and hear his croaky voice moan my name.