Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
My eyes go wide at the name that follows…
Cole Hyde.
Atlas’s father.
I call Sydney straight away.
“You got my email.”
“I did…” I pause. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. I wanted you to know you’re safe. No one is after you, and you can start running again.”
“He told you to tell me, right?” I say, knowing full well he did. That last comment could only have come directly from Atlas.
“He’s keeping his distance, as you asked. I have to go. Goodbye, Thea.” She hangs up, and I quickly scroll through my contacts. I have his number in my new cell, but I know it and can rattle it off by heart. I shouldn’t. There is absolutely no need for me to remember it, but for some crazy reason I can recall it easily.
Putting my cell away, I search the internet for his name.
Pictures pop up, him with other women, but he’s definitely not touching any of them. Then there’s one of the two of us. His hand is held firmly on my lower back while his eyes are trained on me as we walk. I didn’t even know it was taken let alone available on the web. I look so damn innocent, so completely unaware of the type of man he really is.
I’ve been trying to move on from Atlas Hyde, ever since the moment he trampled all over my heart while carrying his cousin from my living room. And now, I’m afraid that it may not be possible. How do you move on from someone who you thought you disliked, but then realize it’s not that at all—it’s quite probably love?
The problem I am facing is it’s next to impossible.
I dream about him.
He’s in my every waking moment of thought.
His father’s picture comes up next. It’s one of him dressed in a suit, a young Atlas is standing next to him at his trial. I’m guessing it is the one that put that asshole away for good. Atlas doesn’t look at him, but he is there in every picture, standing by his father’s side, even though he shouldn’t be.
I look at my cell again, then shake my head as I pack my things and leave.
Once I arrive home, I change into my active gear. I haven’t run in what feels like weeks. Stretching, I look up at the night sky and breathe in the crisp, clean air. Smelling rain, I know I should go back inside, but I don’t want to. I need to move, and the only way to do that is to run. My body is craving the endorphins, and it will help me to relax, and after this, I know I will have the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. My therapist has been encouraging me to exercise, and she asks me every single time I attend a session if I have been out for a run. Truth be told, I haven’t felt safe to do so with the threat of Atlas’s father’s hit hanging over my head, but now that has all changed, and I feel safe to be outside on my own again.
My feet hit the pavement hard as I start, the wind blowing through my hair as I push myself further and further until my bones ache and my legs burn.
This feels good.
It’s what I crave.
I am good at this.
The rain starts to fall in soft droplets, then it becomes a more wind-driven downpour which is cold and pelts my skin. It changes within seconds, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop now, the high from pushing myself is working, and the stressors that I felt earlier are slowly leaving my body while my mood is changing, and my mind is becoming clearer.
My watch tells me I have been running for forty minutes, but it doesn’t feel like it has been that long. Turning around, I start the trek home when I see a familiar figure, a man wearing a hoodie who is also running this track. My feet come to a dead stop as he runs along the other path, not looking my way, but I know it’s him. I would know him anywhere.
My hand goes up to call him over, but I let it drop and turn away. Looking up, the night sky is now black, the rain now light and I find it all comical.
What an ending.
What a way to move on.
With quick steps, I start again not looking back, not caring why he is out this way.
I don’t want to know, I tell myself as I start the run home.
I don’t want to know.
When I arrive home there’s a letter sitting on the porch, propped up against my door. I pick it up with wet fingers and tear it open, inside there is a picture of baby Benji. The photograph instantly gives me joy as I smile while looking it over before I step inside. I hold it carefully trying to make sure I don’t ruin the image because I’m saturated, even my hair is dripping water from the ends.