Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
"Do you understand now?" he asks.
I nod. Still can't quite find words yet. My voice feels like it's been scraped raw.
"Say it."
"I'm not—" My voice is hoarse, wrecked. "I'm not a phase."
"And?"
"And you—" I stop. Try again. "I don't know what this is."
"Neither do I." His thumb brushes my cheek, catching a snowflake. "But I know I want to find out. I know I have twelve days left to decide, and you will be part of that decision." His forehead rests against mine. "I know that watching you laugh with him today made me jealous. Murderously so.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t think it’s right that a part of me is relieved and glad that I made him jealous.
He steps back, and I immediately miss the warmth of him. The cold air rushes in to fill all the spaces where he was. "I will walk you home now."
"You don't have to—"
"I am walking you home, Thea." Not a question. Not a request. Just a fact.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. But this silence is different. Charged. Electric. Every few steps, his hand brushes mine, and I wonder if he's counting too. Counting the moments
until he does it again.
We reach my building. Fourteen steps from the sidewalk to the door.
I count them anyway. Can't help it.
He notices. "You are counting."
"I always count."
"I know." He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "It’s one of my favorite things about you."
"That I'm neurotic?"
"That you are you." His hand lingers on my face. "All of you. The counting and the coffee stains and the way you go invisible when you are scared." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "All of it. Every single part."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to respond when someone looks at me like that—like all my broken pieces are exactly what they want.
"Tomorrow," he says. "Seven-twenty-three."
"I'll be there."
"And you will not hide from me?"
"I'll try not to."
"Good." He leans down, kisses me once more—quick and hard and full of promise. "Goodnight, Thea."
"Goodnight, Santino."
I watch him walk away. Watch until he rounds the corner and disappears into the snow and the dark. Then I let myself into my building on legs that still feel uncertain, still feel like they might give out at any moment.
Chapter Eight
THE NEXT MORNING, I arrive at the café thirty minutes early.
I tell myself it's because I need to prep the espresso machine. That Gail asked me to restock the napkins. That I have a lot to do before we open.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that Santino arrives at seven-twenty-three, and I need those thirty minutes to build my armor back up. To remember how to be professional. To figure out how to look at him without remembering the way his hand felt under my shirt, the way his mouth tasted, the way he looked at me like I was the answer to a
question he'd been asking his whole life.
Thirty minutes.
I can do this.
I count sugar packets (forty-seven). Wipe down tables that are already clean. Rearrange the menu cards in their holders even though they don't need rearranging.
Seven-fifteen.
My hands are shaking.
It's fine, I tell myself. It was one kiss. People kiss all the time. It didn't mean — it didn't have to mean — and I'm not going to be that girl. The girl who reads an entire novel into a single
chapter. The girl who builds a castle out of one brick and then cries when it falls. I'm not. I refuse.
Seven-twenty.
Jolie arrives, takes one look at me, and sets down Wuthering Heights on the counter. “Everything okay?”
“Uh huh.”
"You're wearing makeup though.”
“S-So?”
She starts to smile, and I start to blush. But when she opens her mouth, I shoot her a warning look.
“Don’t.”
Her smile widens just as the bell above the door chimes, and I forget all about Jolie because I realize...
Seven-twenty-three.
I don't have to look to know it's him. I've memorized the sound of his footsteps, the way he moves through space, the exact rhythm of the door closing behind him.
I turn.
And everything inside me goes cold.
Because he's smiling. That mocking, easy smile I haven't seen since—since before. Since before the overlook and the dance and the alley and his hand under my shirt making me come apart like I was something he'd been waiting his whole life to break open.
The mask is back.
Flawless. Perfect. Like last night never happened.
Like I never trembled in his arms. Like he never said I wasn't a phase. Like his voice never went rough when he told me to let go.
He walks to the corner booth. Sits. Doesn't look at me.
And I realize—he's not going to acknowledge it. Any of it. He's going to pretend last night was just—what? A moment of weakness? A mistake?