Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Billy lets me leave early, and I tell him that’s great because I need to hit the gym to work out some stress. But when I get in my car, I don’t go anywhere. I don’t do anything. I just stare blankly at nothing. Few minutes later, I forget I even wanted to hit the gym.
He was supposed to be my answer.
To all of this.
Was that unfair of me? To see him as a way out? To ask him to be the stick I grab to pull myself out of my stupid metaphor?
It’s right then my phone dings. For the love of licorice, I swear my heart stops until that phone is in my hand and I’m staring at it with wide, desperate eyes.
It isn’t him.
It’s AJ.
And he’s also decided to write me a letter of apology today—in the form of a voice message: “It’s been weighing on me for days and for whatever stupid-ass reason I’m just now putting it into words. I am so fucking sorry for not showing up at the concert last week. Wait, was it last week? Two weeks ago? Bro, I’m losing track of time out here, and—Sorry, went on a tangent. Wish voice things were editable. Guess you’re stuck with me being a nerd. Anyway, uh … what was I saying? … shit, right, Horseshoe. I just wanted to say, that was seriously so thoughtful, so damned thoughtful, and I stood you up like an asshole, and I sure as fuck hope you enjoyed the good music anyway without me, because nothing speaks to me like Chase Holt’s older stuff … well, I dunno, maybe his newer stuff, too, I just never gave it a chance … but really, his old stuff, like, I seriously found my soul listening to his music. My soul, bro. Anyway, I’ll make it up to you, promise. We’ll get tickets someday—again—and I’ll be right there next to you in the crowd. Just you and me, man. I swear it. I’ll … What?” Now he’s calling out to someone else. “Dude, in a second! I’m leaving a voice message thingy for—What? Later! I said later!” He starts laughing. “Seriously?? S-Stop! Okay, okay, okay, just—Hey, uh, so sorry bro, I’m, uh … I’ll catch up with you better when I have time. Maybe tonight? Or tomorrow? Or—” Then the voice message cuts off.
I lower my phone to my lap and seamlessly return to staring blankly ahead.
I don’t remember driving back home. But here I am, sitting in my room, staring at the blank screen of my phone and wondering why the hell I haven’t tried to call or text Austin. Am I forgiving him and, as always, taking the blame for scaring him off? Did some part of me know I was coming on too strong, so I just let him go?
I pull up his name. I type out a message.
Then I delete it.
I type out something else.
Delete that one, too, and set my phone away a safe distance from me on the nightstand, then throw myself on the bed.
Nothing speaks to me like Chase Holt …
The last person I need advice from is road-trip-hijacking AJ. Even if I low-key hope he gets closer to Paris during his time on the west coast. At least one of us can be happy.
I seriously found my soul listening to his music …
Though I could totally use AJ’s company right now to talk me off the edge. Even if he just makes fun of me and puts on a movie as a cheap form of distraction.
We’ll get tickets someday—again—and I’ll be right there next to you.
I sit up.
It still doesn’t feel right. The brief note after the night we had. Our time in Spruce. The calling and messaging back and forth. He would just throw all that away because we got a little intimate and I fell asleep on his chest?
I deserve more?
Don’t I deserve to say what the fuck I deserve?
I flip open my college laptop on the desk for the first time since I’ve been home. Open the website. Click and click and click. Then I’m staring at the screen with my breath held. With just one more click, my madness becomes a certain thing.
I flick my eyes to the windowsill.
To the hat that rests there.
Austin’s hat. Signed by Chase Holt.
It’s the sight of that hat that gives me the final push. I swipe it off the sill, place it upon my head with the ceremonial respect that Austin gave it, gently and with intent. Then I click that button. My phone dings with a notification, which I ignore. I slap shut my laptop and, after one last look in the mirror, head down the stairs.
“Sweetheart, it’s supposed to rain tonight. Tell me you’re not planning on going out again?”
“I’ll be home later,” I promise her.