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)
I love her mess, and I love this world that turned out to be so much bigger and softer than the one I ran from.
“I’ll buy next time, to make up for it,” she grins.
“You never buy,” I say. “Because you hate to tip.”
“Well, I am turning over a new leaf,” she shrugs. “Aren’t you supposed to be working? Stop chatting to me, it’s distracting.”
I snort. I am supposed to be working, which is why my email is open, maximized, stacked up with five different reminders. I got a job at a law office when I moved here, and I’m still not entirely sure it is the career path I want to go down. Is it me? I don’t know. But it is something good, it earns me money, and it keeps me busy. Three things I needed most when I decided to turn my back on the life, I was so certain I wanted forever.
“Uh, Vi, I don’t want to alarm you but...”
My head snaps up at Reagan’s tone, and I see her eyes are on her screen, before darting up to me as she slowly turns it in my direction.
Travis Phoenix in serious condition after saving the lives of three people in a burning building.
I stare so hard at the line of text it begins to dissolve into black pixels. For two years, I have trained myself to ignore anything that reminds me of home, or the people who once lived in my bones like infection. But this is different. Everything around me drowns out, like a low buzz. All I can hear is the wild hammering of my pulse.
My hands clamp so tight around my glass that my fingers ache. I don’t breathe. The weight of those words—his name, all stitched to the phrase “serious condition”—drains the world of color, leaving only static, sharp and cold. There’s a photo under the headline, a massive building in flames, people everywhere.
I force myself to drop my gaze, trying to steady my breath. Of course, he would do something heroic. He would be beautiful and reckless and breakable all at once. The boy I knew, oh, he would save a puppy from a burning building even if it cost him his own life. Reagan is looking at me with her whole face pulled into concern, mouth tensed, and I know she is trying to stop herself from asking a million questions.
This is the part where I am supposed to make a joke, or at least a sound, but the inside of my head is just a jumble of memories roaring to the surface. When was the last time I even spoke his name? I remember the last time I saw him, as I was being taken away in that ambulance two years ago. On his knees, his face twisted with pain. An image I struggle to forget.
I left everything behind.
I didn’t tell anyone where I went, I changed my number, I turned my back and moved on. I haven’t spoken to Travis, or to Chief, at all. My mother keeps Chief updated, I know she does, but she never told him where we moved, either. Sure, he could have found us if he wanted to, but I think he knew I needed this. He knew the damage they caused.
Travis tried, for months he tried. He called my mother every day, begging her to let him talk to me. Eventually, she told him that he just needed to let me go, she was sorry, and then she changed her number. I never heard from him again. Of course, I see his face as I scroll social media, or in a news article, but I always force my fingers to keep on moving. No matter what.
I don’t even use a social media platform under my own name anymore.
I literally left it all behind.
A table three feet away erupts with laughter, and I flinch. I realize I’m staring at the edge of the table, not hearing a goddamn thing outside of the roaring inside my chest.
“I need to go,” I say. It comes out rougher than I intend, and Reagan’s eyes widen like I just threw my coffee in her face. I wave my hand and try for a smile, but the muscles in my cheeks are stuck. “I just, I need some air.”
“Vi...”
“I’m okay, really. I just...I need to go.”
I shove my laptop into my bag, my hands clumsy. I leave Reagan with one more assurance that I’m fine, and tumble down the stairs, two steps at a time, not caring who notices if I slip. Outside, the air is so hot it shocks my body, making my hair stick to my skin. I walk, ignoring the burn behind my eyes, hoping it fades before I reach the car. But the headline follows. Travis Phoenix. Serious Condition.