Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“Is she okay?” I demand before she can hardly say the entire word hello.
“She’s fine. They checked her over. She’s sleeping now. The officers have just left. Are you still at the station?”
I let out a long breath. “I’m so happy she’s okay. I wasn’t thinking.”
I was thinking, but not about my best friend. When I saw Logan running through the dark, all I could think about was our family and getting him out of there.
“Relax, sweetness. She’s going to be okay. She didn’t… They didn’t get to her if you understand what I’m saying.”
I swallow, remembering the room, what I saw, and the ugliness that will forever turn me into fantastical worlds. The real one is sometimes too blunt, painful, and sick to look at. “Yeah, I get you, Miss Harris.”
“The police were asking about somebody else on the scene,” she says. “Did they ask you, too? Apparently, somebody beat those boys bloody and locked them in the closet. Broke a nose. Busted several ribs. They’re all laid up in the hospital.” A pause, and then Miss Harris’ voice gets low. “They said this to Chrissy like she’d care and make her liable to give them something. It makes me sick. Whoever that is, and whatever his reasons for running, he did the right thing.”
“We can agree there, Miss Harris,” I say fiercely.
“Take care, sweetness. Chrissy will call you tomorrow.”
“Goodbye.”
I walk down the street to my car and climb inside. I doubt any officers are watching me, but I still want to be careful as I look up and down the street, searching for Logan.
“I’m here,” he says from the backseat.
I almost jump but hold myself back. He’s lying in the backseat in the shadows. His eyes must be closed because those blues always catch the light, even if there’s hardly any at all.
“Drive,” he goes on.
“Where?” I whisper.
“Anywhere.”
I start the engine, pull away from the station, and drive down the highway. Instead of taking the exit that leads to our suburbs, I keep going, heading toward the hills. Logan sits up in the backseat on his cell phone. He’s cleaned the blood off his face, but his knuckles are grazed.
“Who are you texting?” I ask.
“My teammate, Chuck.” Logan sighs. “He’s not happy with me. None of the players are. It’s not like the season’s over, and we’re still winning.” He runs a hand through his hair and sits back. “You’re a good driver, Emma.”
I laugh, so delighted at being here in his presence. It’s like I’m drunk on him all over again, just like that night six weeks ago. Somehow, it feels like so much more time has passed, but at the same time, none at all. “Thanks. It’s easy when it’s this late. When should I turn back for your rental?”
“We’ve got time,” he says, his eyes glinting when we pass a bright road light. We’re winding through the hills now, LA glistening in the distance. “Or maybe it’s like that night.”
My skin tingles all over. My belly warms up, too. “What about it?”
“We kept going.” His voice is deep, gruff. “On that balcony. We both knew we should’ve gone somewhere else. Somewhere less risky, but we kept going because if we stopped…”
“The spell would be broken,” I whisper. “So we had to do it there.”
“That sounds like an excuse,” he says quietly, “for both of us.”
“That’s how it felt, though. You’re right.”
He smirks. “I’m right? You said it, Emma. A spell. Why don’t you stop here?”
I follow his gesturing hand to a rock face on the side of the road, the shadow almost completely black. Just past it, there’s a tree. I slow the car, drive over the gravel, and stop near the tree. When I kill the engine, I leave the lights off. We sit in darkness together.
When he finally speaks, it feels so intimate. “Explain what happened with the baby.”
“I don’t get it.”
“From start to finish. Learning you were pregnant.”
I almost snap again, but his voice is too fierce, too certain. He needs this. There’s a strange energy emanating from him. The atmosphere of the car changes to something somehow primal.
“Well, at first, I realized I missed my period.”
“More detail,” he says. “I want to be there with you. When I think of it, I want it to feel like I’m remembering it.”
I swallow. This is a bigger challenge than most creative writing teachers give me. “I was sitting at my desk, working on a story about a fantasy princess who becomes a warrior. It was an old one. I started it when I was a kid. I return to it now and then, sharpen it up. I don’t know if it’s any good.”
“I’m sure it is,” he says, with complete confidence, though he can’t possibly know.
“Then it just hit me. I felt like such an idiot. I rushed to the store. Well, first, I walked down the stairs, one step at a time, one step, one step…”