Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Including hers, and the baby they’d created that she hadn’t told him about. The baby she knew was inside her, even though she hadn’t yet taken a test. Dr. Sweeton had given her a pregnancy test as part of the protocol before she’d been administered the hallucinogens, and it’d come back negative. It was far too early, and yet, still, she knew.
She turned to look at him, tears burning her eyes as she brought her hand to his cheek and ran her thumb over his cheekbone. He looked so uncertain, so intensely vulnerable, and she knew she loved him. Maybe it was too early for that as well. But how could it be, when she felt it in every cell in her body? She knew. And perhaps she’d known far earlier than this.
He closed his eyes, leaning into her palm, nuzzling her. She remembered going to the cemetery a few days after they’d slept together. She’d known, even then, and so she’d gone to Tanner . . . she’d gone to apologize for what she felt inside—a soul that spoke to her own. An acknowledgment—even if deep down—that she’d found the person she was willing to move on with.
But Tanner hadn’t needed an apology. She’d been the one seeking forgiveness. Lennon leaned in and kissed Ambrose gently, and he sighed and returned her kiss.
This time they walked together to the bedroom, and when he entered her body, their gazes held, connected in every way two humans could connect.
She accepted him not only into her body but into her heart, fully and without guilt or reservation. She was being given a second chance, and she wanted to weep with gratitude and with the knowledge that there was all kinds of love in the world. Young love, and more experienced love. Love before pain, and love that overcomes heartache.
He moved over her, his beautiful down-turned eyes filling with passion, with love. And if she hadn’t been certain before, she was certain now—she would not deny the world more people like Ambrose, people who were trapped inside human shells, begging to be set free.
Afterward, he pulled her against him, running his hand lazily over her arm, and they lay like that for several peaceful moments. She moved back and studied him, struck by his expression. He looked so vulnerable, and she was still knocked sideways by the fact that someone with a past like his could or would allow an emotion like that to show so starkly on his face. As if he didn’t know what some people did with such tenderness. But of course he did—and much better than most—and so that made it all the more awe inspiring.
He sighed happily, his eyes—those beautiful soul-searing eyes—moving over her features. “You make me feel like white doves and waffles,” he said.
She breathed out a laugh. “White doves and waffles.” She considered that. “So peaceful . . . and sweet?”
He turned, lacing his fingers behind his head on the pillow. “My grandfather went away for a week once. It was the best week of my childhood. I don’t even remember where he went. But my grandma, she took me into town, and we ate breakfast at Denny’s. I ordered waffles. I’d never had waffles. Or syrup. I licked my plate, and my grandma laughed. I’d never seen her laugh.” Even from the side, she saw his gaze grow slightly cloudy as his eyes shifted from the wall to the ceiling, obviously picturing those waffles and that unexpected moment of happiness. “I thought if he didn’t exist, life might be like that. I understood how other people lived. And it hurt, but . . . it was also the first time I felt hope.” He turned toward her, and again, she saw his heart in his eyes. “You feel like that. Like peace, and sweet, and hope.”
Oh God. She was moved and honored, and her throat felt full of the emotion that had welled up in her as he described one of the only good memories he had of his boyhood, otherwise filled with so much darkness and despair.
He turned back toward her, leaning in. “And you make me want to lick my plate clean,” he said with a grin.
She laughed.
They kissed and cuddled, finding joy in the shared intimacy and solace in the warm safety of her bed. And then they talked for hours, telling each other about the respective journeys they’d taken as they’d undergone Dr. Sweeton’s therapy. Lennon, however, didn’t yet talk about the baby, as she sensed it wasn’t quite time for that. They spoke about the undeniable sense of love that had permeated everything, when they’d been given the eyes to see it, and seemed to be . . . an ingredient, for lack of a better word, that made up the entire universe. It sounded hippie dippie, and her mother would eat it up. But regardless, she’d experienced it, and knew it was true. Or maybe, she surmised, it was part of their makeup—human beings—and it had been accessed with the drugs. It was difficult to explain, and she was grateful she’d gone through it so she could relate. Because otherwise, there would have been no other way. Words . . . mostly failed to describe it, though she knew what he was getting at with his explanations. And she understood even more the white dove, and the terrible, awful guilt and shame and pain Ambrose had lived with for his first twenty-one years. And she also understood that though he’d lied about being born and raised in San Francisco, he’d also told the truth. Or perhaps reborn was a better way to say it. Reraised. Renewed.