Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
The sun begins to set. Beautiful rays of pink and orange glimmer through the window, covering our clasped hands. And for a long moment, everything in the world is exactly as it should be—except for the words I can’t say.
Not yet.
But soon.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe this weekend.
For now, I let him hold my hand, and I pretend I’m not about to break everything we’ve built.
It almost works.
When we finally leave Café Soleil, the city has changed. The sun’s only a hint in the sky now, the world a moody scene of blue, purples, and greys around us.
Thomas holds the door for me, then steps outside and stretches, as if he’s been underground for a year. For a moment, neither of us moves. People walk past—an old man with a dog, a girl with pink hair riding a battered bike—but we’re in a bubble, the world blurring at the perimeter.
He stands close, but not close enough to touch. The pause is deliberate. He’s waiting for a sign from me, a word, a nod, something. When he leans in, it’s slow, careful, as if he’s kissing me for the first time. I tilt my head up and meet his mouth, soft at first, then greedy. I taste the bitterness of old coffee and something else—something like hope and promises.
He pulls away first, his eyes still closed. When he opens them, they’re the clearest blue I’ve ever seen, wiped clean by the storm. “You’re mine,” he says, not loud but certain.
I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He walks me to the corner, then stops, glancing over his shoulder like he expects someone to be watching. “I’ll see you this weekend,” he says. It’s not a question.
I say, “Yes.” My voice cracks, but it’s okay.
He gives me one last look—up and down, possessive and unhurried—then turns and heads for his car, his stride smooth, unhurried, king of his own piece of city.
I watch him until he disappears around the corner, then just stand there, blinking in the fading light. I feel the place where his hand held mine, the echo of his kiss on my lips, the tremor of everything I almost said.
On the walk back to my car, the world feels different. Lighter, but also more dangerous. Every honk sounds unduly loud, every passing car sounds like a dare. I replay our conversation, the confession I almost made, the way his fingers covered mine at exactly the right moment. I think about all the things he said—about the future, about us, about the child he’d like to see growing inside me.
By the time I reach my car, I’ve made a decision.
I’ll tell him. All of it. This weekend, in the penthouse, with the city looking on. The bet, the video, the thousand dollars, every last humiliating, honest detail. He deserves the truth. And if it ruins everything, at least it will be my ruin, not a lie.
I slide into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let the silence bloom. My phone feels like a bomb in my pocket. I fish it out and type a message with shaking thumbs.
See you this weekend. X
He replies instantly, as if he’s been waiting:
Yes, and I want you. All of you.
I stare at the words until they burn themselves into the screen, then set the phone face-down on the dash.
For a minute, I don’t turn the key. I just sit there, the engine cold, my own reflection ghosted in the glass. My hair’s a mess, cheeks pink, eyes swollen and bright. I don’t look like myself, and maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m someone new—someone brave, or reckless, or just done with secrets.
I press my hand to the glass, leaving a mark, and watch it fade.
Then I start the car, put it in gear, and drive toward the next impossible thing.
Maybe it will be enough.
Maybe it will ruin everything.
But at least it will be mine.
16
THE DISCOVERY
Thomas
When Stella texts me, it’s in the form of a plea. “If you REALLY love me,” she wrote, “bring your tools and mount the shelves, please please please. Not a euphemism (ha, ha). We are helpless. Also bring some snacks, these girls are hungry bitches.”
It’s only after I park in the crumbly little lot behind the apartment complex that I realize I didn’t text back. But that’s fine—Stella didn’t give me a date nor time, so I figured I’d drop by, even if it’s a Friday night. Besides, my daughter knows her father, knows that I travel a lot and am often out of pocket midweek. She doesn’t know, of course, the real reason I’m at her apartment.
It’s not the shelves. I’d pay a guy to do that, in a heartbeat.
But I want to see how Andie is living.
The stairs reek of spilled beer and overcooked onions, each landing littered with flyers for furniture that looks one careless breath away from collapse. The door to their unit is propped slightly open with a sock, of all things, and the sound that comes through—laughter, the tinny buzz of music, the fizz of a can popped open—pulls me forward with a sudden, unmanageable hunger. I stand in the hall for an extra beat, running my palm over the back of my neck to calm myself.