Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
I sigh for what seems like the millionth time, and Chase just chuckles beside me.
“I take it you’ve never been to a rage room before?” he asks, tossing me a hoodie before yanking one over his dress shirt and closing the cab doors.
He rejoins me, and I take a break from my shake to answer.
“Definitely not. My mother would have an aneurysm at the mere mention of it. She was a ‘work your frustrations out in the gym’ kind of woman, but you know, only if it’s me. Anything to get me to burn off calories, even if I hadn’t consumed any that day.” I frown, thinking about it. “She never worked out and looked flawless all the time. It was annoying.” I look up suddenly, wincing. “Sorry. I’m always such a mood killer.”
“Nah,” Chase disagrees with a smile.
“What about you? Beat things up often?”
He digs a spoon into his sundae, shaking his head. “Never needed to before. I get to knock people around or get knocked around on the field enough.”
I tip my head at him. “Usually.”
He looks over, pausing with a spoon at his lips.
“You usually get knocked around enough that it helps tame the beast.” I try to make light of the subject that’s not really light at all.
It sort of works, and the chuckle that leaves Chase is only slightly strained.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” A heavy sigh escapes him, and he frowns at his pile of caramel syrup as if it’s personally offended him. “Usually.”
Lifting my camera from where it’s sitting in my lap, I hold it up and take his picture.
Chase’s head snaps up, a small glare fixed on his face.
I shake it back and forth. “Because you look so tragic. I figure I’ll show you this when you’re back to your happy-go-lucky self.”
“I’m not happy-go-lucky.”
“Yeah, you are.” I pause, testing the waters a little to see if maybe he wants to talk about it. “Or you were, but not so much lately.”
Chase’s brows dip even lower, but his features quickly go blank as he faces forward. “It’s not what you think,” he finally says.
“I mean, it would be okay if it was.” I lift a shoulder. “If anyone knows how little sense the way missing or wanting someone you can’t have messes with you, it’s me. Half the time, I feel like a rubber band, stretching and stretching, only to snap right back to where I started with a sting that wasn’t there before. It’s…exhausting.” I tense, peeking at him from the corner of my eye to find him staring. “I didn’t mean to throw that at you. I’m fine, really. I’m just—” Cutting myself off, I turn to Chase, my lips flattening, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m running my mouth to him once again. “That’s a lie,” I tell him. “I’m not fine. Sometimes things feel okay, but I’m never fine. I don’t even like that stupid word. Fine. What does it even mean?”
I stand up, pacing the length of the bed of the truck.
I never thought things could get worse, but here I am, twelve months past what I thought was the worst day of my life, and guess what? Things. Are. Worse.
Things are worse, and like my mother always said, it’s all my fault.
My life is crumbling at my feet, and I’m the one holding the hammer.
I’m losing it.
A flash blinds me, and I look to Chase in confusion to find his phone in hand, a soft smile on his lips. “Because you look so tragic right now. Figured I’d show it to you when you’re back to your pretend happy-go-lucky self.”
It takes a moment, but a laugh leaves me, and I drop back onto the tailgate and bump his shoulder the way he did mine last time.
Picking up my milkshake, I give it a little swirl before taking another drink.
We sit in silence for a while, and it’s nice. Relaxing, even if I did have a moment a handful of minutes ago.
I’m so lost in the peace the night provides, I jolt when the warmth of Chase’s skin brushes against my own. My eyes fly to his, but his are on his knuckle as he drags it along the side of my mouth.
A small frown builds, and when he looks up, he lifts his hand to show a dab of ice cream before he uses a napkin to wipe it clean.
I hold my shake out in his direction. “Wanna trade?”
Chase looks down at his sundae, a glare growing before he passes it my way. “Yeah.” He sighs. “I think I’m ready for something new.”
The way he says it, I’m not so sure he’s talking about ice cream, but that’s none of my business.
I take the sundae and eat every bite. Tomorrow, I’ll regret it, but isn’t that the story of my life?