Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“We could still… uh… talk. The internet can be a terrible tool, as you’ve mentioned, but it can also be a great means of communication.” Stop. Just stop.
“Or text,” she offers.
“There’s that.”
“Or sext. If the mood strikes us.”
I give her my best deer-in-the-headlights impression. “Your family would never let it happen.”
“Never is a big word.”
Never is a big word. As in, I should never allow myself to even have thoughts about indulging this. Temptation is a dangerous game. In fact, it’s not a game at all. Even if I thought this could work somehow, against all the odds—and there are many stacked on the wrong side—happiness is pretty much just an illusion. I stopped believing in it a long time ago, as soon as I realized it was just a state of mind, and brain chemicals change daily. That sounds so wrong. It sounds mopey and hard, and I’m neither of those things. When I retreated from the world, there was certainly hurt and bitterness, but it wasn’t like I turned into a shell. I tried to see past the pain. I’ve tried to enjoy what I have while I have it. Am I lonely? Yes. Do I miss cooking in the capacity I was doing it? Yes. Do I miss having someone there, the thought of a life together, of having a family and a future?
I miss the concept. That’s enough to tell me that I wasn’t truly in love with the person, but the idea of that life. I want what my parents have. They’re rich, but they’re not famous. Their lives are still their own. Their love is genuine and hard-won. Not everything has been easy for them. They’ve had real moments of pain and years of hardship and struggle, but they came out the other side.
Nicole loved me for my face, the lifestyle I could provide, and for who I was then. I knew, even at the time, that if the money or that lifestyle were taken away, she wouldn’t stick around. Did it still hurt me when she refused to see me when she came to the hospital after hearing the doctor’s report, and later texted me that she just couldn’t do it? Yes, but mostly because I got the text right after coming out of surgery and fully realizing what happened. I wasn’t in a good place. A few days in, my heart was still smarting, and my pride had taken a battering, but true heartbreak? It wasn’t that.
I was scared.
But it’s not the same kind of fear now. This is a true precipice. A risk. A confession dug out and erected from my soul.
“You’re much younger than my dad,” Dulcie says softly. “He loved you once.”
“Yeah, like a fucking son.”
“Sometimes, step-siblings fall in love with each other. It’s not that uncommon.”
I cross my arms. “Yes, it is.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t really want to know.”
“Oh my god, is it starting to hail now… ouch!” She snaps her hand up out of the water. Bright red blood wells from the tip of her index finger and immediately runs down toward her wrist. “Shit. Ouch!” She fishes out the offending object with her other hand. “How the hell can a freaking carrot peeler give a cut like this?” She drops it back into the sink and cradles her injured hand.
It’s hailing for sure. It sounds like pebbles hitting the roof.
I move fast, single-mindedly charging across the room. The window might be covered by the porch, but I still want Dulcie to get away from it, and the bleeding has to be stopped.
I spot a roll of paper towels on the counter, so I peel a few off and pass them over. It’s probably cleaner than the dubious-looking dish towel hanging off the oven door.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, wrapping the layers tightly around her finger.
I search every cupboard in the kitchen, every drawer, and the bathroom vanity for a box of bandages, but there’s nothing. I have to return to her empty-handed.
“Can I take a look?” I hold my hand out. She’s pale, chewing her bottom lip hard, and breathing shallowly. I don’t think she likes the look of blood. Or maybe it’s just her own blood.
“I think it was just the water that made it look like it was so much,” she mumbles, trying to convince herself. The paper towel is tinged red and soggy where her finger was.
“That’s probably true.”
“I’m afraid to look. It’s a good thing you’re going to do it for me,” she says weakly.
I’m very gentle in revealing her finger. She turns her face away. We’re still in front of the window, but it’s gone back to raining again. There’s no longer any angry pinging against the roof or windows.
The cut is more of a gouge with a skin flap hanging off of it. It’s small but deep, and right on the pad of her finger. Even though she just had it wrapped with pressure applied, a few drops of blood still welled up.