Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
But then he's there, shouldering past Mike, his eyes sweeping the length of me, as if he was worried about me this entire time. I take some undeserved comfort in his worry about me.
"Ready to go?" he asks as he steps in front of me.
"Yes."
I don't say a word as we leave the room. I feel like I've talked and cried more today than I ever have in my life, and I'm weary right down to the center of me.
"You need to eat," Eddie says once I'm in the passenger seat and he's behind the wheel.
"I can't," I say, my words barely above a whisper. "I just want to rest."
We don't have a flight back until tomorrow because we didn't know how long today was going to take when the round-trip tickets were booked.
Instead of arguing, he points the car back in the direction of the hotel we stayed in last night.
Time seems to somehow stand still and move at warp speeds, and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to keep any train of thought. My head is a nest of emotions, regret and remorse taking the lead above all others.
I can't count how many times I open my mouth to ask him to come back to South Carolina with me. I can't shove down the possibility that I'll lose my mind between now and when that phone call comes in about Sadie's death.
But I can't seem to get the question out, fearful of yet another rejection.
I somehow manage to keep it together on the drive but make a flimsy excuse about needing to wash my face before arrowing straight to my area of the small hotel suite.
The closing of the door at my back feels like the final straw that takes my emotions from just being bent to finally breaking once again. I manage to run across the room and close myself into the en suite before my body is racked by the first sob, but then I'm overcome with a torrent of sorrow and anguish.
Chapter 25
Ace
I can't count the number of times I've borne witness to a woman crying. The number seems to be endless, but hearing her sobs through the door brings out a visceral reaction in me I've never felt before.
I know it's best for everyone if I go back to my part of the suite and let her have this moment to herself. I can't fix it. There's nothing I can do to make this better for her. A story about my tragic past doesn't ease the guilt she's going to feel for a lifetime, and I didn't tell her my story about Noah to try and one-up her. I just wanted her to know that she's not alone in the way she feels about Sadie's demise.
I press my forehead to her bedroom door, knowing by the shower being on that she's trying to hide this from me. I don't know if she sees it as a weakness or if she's worried I'll have some sort of negative reaction; either way, her pain makes me want to comfort her. For once in my life, I genuinely want to take on someone else's burdens if only to ease them a little.
I knock gently on the bedroom door, but she doesn't answer.
I pace through the small common area of the suite, forcing myself away from her door, but a second later my feet carry me right back across the room. But instead of knocking again, I open the bedroom door and enter.
The sobs continue, telling me she either didn't hear me come into the room or the pain is too great to stop it.
Approaching the bathroom door, I hesitate when I lift my hand to knock on that one. She's in there alone because that's what she has chosen. If she wanted me to witness her crying, she would've done it in the living room or in the car.
I know she has spent a lifetime not letting anyone see the real her. She has been trained to be brave and face adversity with a smile on her face, to assure anyone who might be watching her instead of her father that everything is fine, that she has it all under control.
Instead of turning back and leaving the room like the alarm bells in my head are insisting that I do, I knock on the bathroom door, growling when I get no response.
I knock louder, hating that I hear her sobs halt as if she's holding her breath, possibly feeling as if she got caught doing something wrong.
I startle when the door opens because I was fully expecting her to just answer by speaking through the wood.
Her face is red and blotchy, her nose irritated from the number of times she's had to blow it in the last twenty-four hours.