Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 314(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Jim laughed, and I couldn’t help but look at his full lips. God, I bet he was a great kisser.
“Don’t worry,” I hurried to say. “I won’t corrupt you.” I was here because my parents wanted me in the most prestigious private school available. Jim was here on a scholarship. One strike and he’d be sent packing.
“If you want to get up on these tables and scream, I’m right there with you.” A smirk shaped his lips, the kind that made my heart flutter.
“Really?” I asked, mystified by the boy who never seemed to care about my wild tendencies, didn’t criticize me for getting lost in the music and dancing wherever I heard it, didn’t chide me for spicing up our strict uniforms with whatever accessories I could sneak past the uptight school admins.
Jim cocked an eyebrow at me, his smile infectious as he stood up halfway from his seat, placing his hands on the table like he was about to climb on top of it.
I grabbed him and hauled him back down, barely suppressing the giggle bubbling in my chest. A few people glanced our way, but dutifully ignored us.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whispered, downright beaming at him.
He shrugged, eying the hand I still had on his forearm. “I may be ridiculous,” he said. “But so are you. And in a place like this?” he nodded toward the stoic room. “I think that means you’re stuck with me.”
“Anne?” Dr. Casson’s voice pushed me out of the memory. “Where did you go just now.”
I blinked a few times, hating that the memory felt like a warm blanket and a dream all at the same time.
“There was someone,” I said. “Once. In high school.”
“Oh?” she asked, grinning. “An old flame?”
“You could say that.”
“And how did this person make you feel safe?”
“He liked me for exactly who I was.” I sighed, relaxing a bit in the chair. “He never asked me to change.”
And he never, not once, compared me to Persephone.
“And what happened with him?”
“My father didn’t approve of our relationship,” I said, shoving down the flickering pain from the old wound. “Jim’s father passed away when he was a kid, and his mother barely made ends meet waiting tables. He wasn’t exactly what my father viewed as VanDoren relationship material.”
“Ouch.” Dr. Casson furrowed her brow. “Did you ever reach out to him after you were out of your parent’s control?”
I laughed at that. “I’ve never been out of my parent’s control. To this day they use my inheritance like a bargaining chip. Besides, I’m sure he’s married with four children and a pair of chocolate labs by now. Probably has a white picket fence and everything.”
I looked down at my nails, pretending to examine them while she studied me. I didn’t want her to see the regret shining in my eyes. Didn’t want her to see the pain I felt over never trying to reconnect with him. But in the end, it was for the best that my father tore us apart.
I would’ve ruined his life.
That’s what I did, what I’ve always done.
“Is there anything wrong with white picket fences and a simple life?”
I finally returned my focus to her.
“No,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.”
I didn’t know how badly my feet could hurt before I started waiting tables at Lyla’s Place, one of the most popular restaurants in Sweet Water. They practically barked at me after my shift.
Darkness had settled over the town, the sky an inky black splattered with diamonds as I sat in my car, stalling as the thought of driving home to my empty studio apartment. I wasn’t used to being alone, even if the company I used to keep wasn’t exactly healthy for me. The idea of sitting in the silence with myself made me want to scream. Or cry. Maybe both. Today’s session had certainly opened up a box I’d kept locked up for a decade, and it was like I couldn’t stop feeling everything.
Feeling sad, regretful, ashamed, embarrassed, pissed off. I ping-ponged from each emotion all night, all while wearing my proper southern smile like a mask while I waited on customers.
It was too much.
I felt too much.
It swarmed me, all the emotions filling me up from the inside out like grains of sand until I was sure I’d suffocate from it. It made everything harder—thinking, breathing.
Maybe it was normal to feel all these things at once.
Maybe it only felt strange to me because I usually floated in the wonderful space of oblivion provided by alcohol.
Thirst swept over me, and I glanced to my right, eying the small bottle in the cup holder.
I’d bought it in a low moment last week.
My fingers itched to crack the lid. One drink wouldn’t kill me.
Only, it could.
Right. It could. Was the numbing fog it offered worth dying over?