Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73817 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73817 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Please,” he whimpers again.
He doesn’t let go.
Please …
I’m like the cliff he’s hanging from. A pillow clutched during a nightmare. A blanket in the cold wilderness.
What am I supposed to do with this?
My arms gently settle, one around his back, the other resting on the arm he’s got around my waist. When I touch him, he squeezes me a little tighter, clinging to me.
It’s not a game. That’s what I have to believe, even if it is a game. Even if I get duped in the end. Even if this is a big, elaborate scam he’s pulled on a dozen other men as foolish and lonely as myself.
I have to take him at his word.
Because if this isn’t a game, then he’s someone who needs my help—and I think I’d rather err on the side of compassion than guarded cynicism and suspicion.
“Come here,” I tell him, patting his back, as I detach from him and slide up the bed, back to where I was lying before he came in. He watches me for a second before he follows me across the bed to the pillows. I open my arms, and like a magnet, he nuzzles within them, his back against my chest. I close my arms, spooning him against my body.
The feel of another person in my arms, cuddled to my chest like a treasure, warm and safe and protected, simply doesn’t compare to anything. How could I have forgotten what this feels like, to care for someone, to hold them close and feel as if I could never let them go if I wanted?
How long has it been since I held someone?
It’s nearly crushing, how good this feels.
“I’ve been wondering this past week … what a life out here would be like,” says Seany, his voice soft and curious. “A real one. In a house like this, for example. Waking up to the sounds of the beach every morning …”
“You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it. I don’t want to get used to any of it. I’d want to cherish it every morning I open my eyes, like it’s this big surprise … every morning I wake up, thankful for the waves crashing on the shore, thankful for the air in my lungs … thankful I’m alive.”
He nuzzles back against me, his cute butt pressed to my crotch, his back glued to my chest, his legs and feet fitted around mine like we’re two halves of a whole that all this time were meant to piece together perfectly, puzzle pieces locked together as one.
“That’s a beautiful way to live,” I remark.
We grow quiet together. Somehow, holding him in my arms does the trick. I feel safer. I feel calmer. And I feel like I’m doing whatever little part I can in healing whatever it is that hurts Seany deep down. Even if it’ll take a dozen more nights like this to truly heal him. Or a hundred. Or an unknowable amount that can’t possibly be quantified.
I’m certain he isn’t waiting on an “okay” from home. He’s been running from something. His dad. His mom. Or both of them. It doesn’t matter to me. He’s safe here.
I just hope he knows that.
Chapter 7 - Seany
I open my eyes, expecting darkness.
Instead, the sun beams through the window, filling the bedroom with sunlight, obscured only slightly by curtains I didn’t notice last night.
The next instant, I sit up, alarmed.
I forgot where I am.
For one terrifying moment of utter oblivion, I feel like the events of last night were a wild dream that’s about to shatter as the cold dread of reality makes itself known.
Then the moment passes.
I take a breath.
I’m safe.
I peer to the side and realize I’m in Cooper’s bed all by myself. We never got under the sheets last night. They are disturbed by our bodies, crinkled and twisted. Over my feet is a crumpled-up blanket that might have been laid over me at some point in the night. Did Coop do that? And wasn’t I facing the other way when I drifted off last night, not able to see the window?
The sound of something softly clinking in the kitchen draws my attention. A spoon in a coffee mug. Or a fork on a plate. He’s awake. I slide off the bed and pad over to the door, then peek an eye out, peering down the hallway at the kitchen, visible from here.
Coop stands at the counter in his tight, muscle-showing tank top and gray sweatpants, which hug the globes of his butt in excruciating detail. I don’t think he’s wearing any underwear beneath, the way those sweatpants even seem to reveal the cleavage between his pert cheeks.
I watch, curious, as he dips something into his steamy coffee mug. Oh, it’s a teabag. He turns slightly, giving me his profile, and my eyes drop to his crotch.