Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 124923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 416(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 416(@300wpm)
I peek over the top, finding a few forgotten throw pillows and blankets. It’s even smaller than I initially thought. The angled ceiling allows for just enough room to sit upright. I look out the window, unable to fully appreciate the view thanks to the white-out, but I bet it was the perfect reading spot. I’m tempted to crawl up there right now. I might if I thought those blankets have been washed in the past century. Instead, I step back down the ladder and make my way over to the bookshelf. I run my fingers over the dust-coated spines, stopping on a familiar cover. They say smell is the strongest trigger for memory, but the same can be said about books. They hold memories, for better or worse. For example, when I see this one—the dystopian novel about a girl who ends up leading a rebellion and falls in love with the boy with a number for a name—I’m transported back to hiding out in my walk-in closet with my music blasting to drown out the sound of my mom in a screaming match with her flavor of the week.
I shake off the memory, moving on. The more I snoop, the more I come to the conclusion that this eclectic collection most likely belonged to more than one person. There is everything from the classics to thrillers, romance, non-fiction, fantasy, children’s books, and everything in between. It feels like something from a fairytale. All that’s missing is a sliding ladder. I pluck a book off the shelf that looks interesting—a dark blue hardcover sans dust jacket with intricate gold detailing on the front. Fantasy, if I had to guess. Blowing off the dust, I walk over to the chair in the corner and curl up in it, making myself comfortable.
Holden
I wake up cold as fuck, and I know before opening my eyes that Valen has bailed. I’m not exactly surprised, but I can’t deny the inexplicable flash of disappointment when that suspicion is confirmed. I stretch my arms over my head with a yawn, feeling more rested than I have in a long time.
After taking a piss, I go in search of my phone in the pile of blankets on the floor. I fish it out from under my pillow, dismissing the low battery notification. It’s 10:44. Holy shit. I don’t remember the last time I slept that many consecutive hours. And not a single nightmare. I still don’t have service, but I try to call Thayer anyway. The call fails, as expected, and I toss my phone back down. Heading into the kitchen, I flick the light switch on and off like it’s going to do anything. Power’s still out. I half-expected it to come back on in the middle of the night. If it’s not fixed by tomorrow morning, I might have to start thinking about digging us the fuck out of here.
I decide to wait Valen out. See how long it takes her to face me. But after cleaning up the entire downstairs, including the mess from Christmas dinner, all the while visions of Valen coming beneath me play in my mind on repeat, I give up the one-sided game. I check the room she’d been sleeping in first but find it empty. I check Thayer and Shayne’s room—no luck. Same with the bunkbed room.
“Where the fuck is she?” I mutter to myself, leaning over the railing to see if I somehow missed her downstairs. Nothing. What if she left? I dismiss that as a possibility. She’d have to be suicidal. But then again, she did say she’d rather take her chances with the elements than be stuck here with me.
I’m about to go check for footprints in the snow when I realize I left one room unchecked. The attic. Or the secret room, as we called it when we were kids. We haven’t used it in years. It’s more of a storage room than anything now. I walk back into her room and notice the closet door open and the ladder is down. I don’t know how I missed it the first time. I climb up and, sure enough, Valen’s curled up on a chair in the corner. My chest feels tight as I take in the scene. She’s fast asleep, an open book lying flat against her chest. Her feet are tucked underneath her, her cheek resting on the crook of her elbow that’s propped on the arm of the chair. The position should be painful, but she makes it look like the most comfortable thing in the world.
I watch her as she wakes, stretching her foot out in front of her and rolling her ankle like it hurts from being in the same position for too long, oblivious to my presence. The blanket on her lap slips off with the motion. She’s still only wearing my shirt, and I like the sight of her in it more than I’d like to admit. The hem rises on her thighs with the movement, exposing the fat bruise on the outside of her thigh. I should have shoved a ski pole up that fucker’s ass for leaving a mark like that on her. Still unaware of the fact that I’m watching her like a creep in the doorway, she stretches her arms behind her head, her back arching enough for me to make out those pretty nipples straining through the thin, white fabric.