Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Apollo’s jaw works. He’s lost that usual big smile of his, and the room feels like a far darker place for it. The whole world is probably a darker place. His eyes are a darker place, darker and mistier. He’s not going to…he’s not tearing up, is he?
“You’re not allowed to do that!” I whip around so I’m not facing him anymore. I need something to look at that isn’t him, so I decide on the window. There are trees out there to stare at, mountain peaks in the distance, and a whole lot of cloudless blue sky. I wrap my arms around myself and stare out at the backyard. The pool looks so placid. The evening probably hasn’t cooled at all, but the sun is riding low and golden, and it’s shimmering off the surface. Even I, who hate swimming on principle, find it inviting.
“I’m truly sorry, Patience.” His voice is so husky. Yup, he’s going to cry. That’s not fair. He didn’t get to have a hard time leaving. He didn’t get to miss home. Right now, he doesn’t get to make mistakes or be human or relatable or make me want to turn back around and tell him to just forget it and beg him not to be sad because I can’t bear it.
How. Fucking. Aggravating.
I give him the most middle school response. “It’s over now anyway.”
“I’m sorry you still feel broken about these things. I’m sorry you had so many hard years. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you and that I hurt you.”
“It wasn’t just hurt. Some of it was legit me hating you.” That was true. At the time.
I angle sideways a little so I can do more sideways looking. I can see that Apollo’s forehead is all wrinkly, and his brows are furrowed. He has such strong brows now as an adult, but as a kid, his brows used to do the same thing. He was never afraid of getting emotional. He cried all the time. In fact, he still looks like he’s going to do that. I used to tell him jokes, make funny faces, and try and stand on my head. I used to tell him that the world could eat turds, and whoever it was who had hurt him would get theirs because karma was a thing, and whatever poo those poo pants spread around would come back to haunt them eventually. I used to be silly just to cheer him up. I want to say something silly now, just for the sake of history, but that’s over too.
Maybe it’s all over.
Still.
I’ve hurt this man’s feelings. This man, who has been nothing but kind to me—the kind of kindness that was completely lacking in my world. He did something amazing for me. He stepped up and tried to save me. He did the kind of thing I wished someone would have done for me all those years. Seeing him hurt now inspires some messed-up protective feelings inside me.
I guess I need to protect him from myself, which suits me just fine.
“I’m just tired,” I say by way of apology. I don’t want to hurt anyone. The last thing the world needs if more douchebaggy things done by douchebaggy people. “Can we do the surprise another day?”
Maybe if I can keep putting it off, the “another day” will never come.
I can keep putting distance between us.
Even if I let the past go, it doesn’t mean there’s going to be a future.
If our dads just work things out, then maybe we can call this whole fake marriage off. It was really just about them, anyway.
“Yeah.” Damn it, he’s giving me the hurt Apollo tone of voice. “Sure. I’m tired too. I think we all are. Maybe what we really need is an early night and a good sleep.”
“Probably.”
“Okay.” His voice is still rough, and it sends shivers through me. My cavewoman hormones still haven’t chilled, and now I’ve got protective hormones going on and the parts of me that still want to know what the surprise is. I feel like I’m being torn in half by invisible medieval-style torture implements.
“Thanks. I’m probably just…going to read or something, then go to bed early.”
“Sounds good. I’ll make sure I keep our dads busy…and not in the—let’s throttle each other and compete with each other until we’re both blue in the whole body or rage about everything from the fridge to the rhubarb planted in the backyard—style they’ve perfected.”
I nearly laugh. “Rhubarb rage. That was quite unexpected. I sometimes rage at my fridge at home, but that’s only because the tray falls apart every single day, sometimes five times a day, and dumps sauces everywhere.” It’s not my home anymore. Not right now. Going back to it will feel…a little bit empty.
“If I knew, I would have ordered your dad a new one.”