Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“No, no,” I murmur, shaking my head, dismantling from the inside out.
She can’t hear me, of course. I doubt she’d be able to stop herself if she could. She might cry even harder, because I’m the reason for her tears. She rolls onto her side and curls up in a ball, holding a pillow to her mouth to muffle the sound of her anguish.
Anguish, I brought her. This is all because of me. I might not have meant to hurt her, but I did. Deeply. So deep, her body shakes from the force.
And now I have no choice except to watch, just as I watched her come. As much as I want to turn away, I can't give in to weakness. I owe her this much. I will witness her pain and remember it every time I resent her for leaving. Every time I wish I had never set eyes on her, since that would mean essentially freedom from the torment she’s putting me through.
“You won't be crying for long,” I promise, whispering to her shaking image. “I promise you, little bird. Soon, you won't have any reason to cry.”
BIANCA
“It's so good to have you back.” Stephanie’s smiling from ear to ear, standing outside my cubicle as I finish getting my things together at the end of what had to be one of the longest days of my life.
I feel like a different person than when I walked out of here on my lunch break that last day. I thought I was going to sign a lease. Something so innocent, the sort of thing people do every day. I expected to return to my desk afterward, because why would I think otherwise?
Now here I am, more than two weeks later. It might as well be two years or two lifetimes. Since I last walked out the door, I was hit by a car and rushed to the ER. I spent days in bed, trying to recover. I found out my best friend was being abused by her ex and was then kidnapped by mine.
And now he's dead, and the man who killed him might have also killed my mother.
When I think of it that way, it's no wonder I could hardly keep myself focused today. Everything seems so stupid and pointless. It's not like I had a terrific opinion of my job before this, but now I can't imagine why anybody would want to spend their life sitting here, going over spreadsheets, wasting hour after hour.
Is this what happens when a person realizes they could have died more than once? Is this my big turning point moment where I realize I need to shake up my entire life instead of wasting another minute doing something I hate?
Right. Fat chance of that happening, especially when I'm living with my father. I'm surprised he let me out of the house to go to work, but not very surprised since he still thinks this job is a big deal. Like I made a massive success out of myself sitting in a gray cubicle all day long and slowly going blind while reading over figures until my eyes crossed.
The least I can do is offer Stephanie a smile and hope it looks sincere since it's not like she did anything to hurt me. “You're just saying that because you're glad you won't have to cover for me anymore,” I tease her, winking.
“Okay, I'm not going to pretend that has nothing to do with it.” Only she gets serious right away, and her smile slips. “Honestly, though. It's good to have you back. You gave us a scare.” Girl, you have no idea how much scarier things got.
I know she means it, even if I can't imagine why. I haven't been here that long. I still have to get used to the idea of people genuinely liking me and not just putting up with me because I tagged along behind Tatum, who was always more popular and better at making friends.
“Let's see if I can make it two days in a row.” I hold up my crossed fingers and laugh it off, even if inside I'm shaking. I have to do this again tomorrow. How the hell am I going to get through the rest of my life this way?
Especially when all I seem to do is think about Callum all day long instead of keeping my mind focused on work.
Immediately, I stop myself before allowing him to encompass my thoughts yet again, and replace memories of him with those of my Mom. The way she took me trick-or-treating alone since Dad was always working that night. Our Saturday afternoons at the movies. Learning how to bake bread from scratch, though I completely forgot that one after a little while. How she always smelled like flowers, how she laughed—rich, hearty, almost bawdy. Like there was a dirty joke she was just dying to tell somebody. I grin at the reminder of it while walking to the elevator.