Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“So…” he says, “I have some new questions for you, now that I’ve had time to reflect on everything.”
“Yeah?” I sit in the chair adjacent to him, watching, waiting for him to get uneasy about how close we’re sitting together, but he seems unfazed.
Nice as that is, I’m tense again, wondering what questions he has for me.
7
LEIF
Considering how much he surprised me in our first encounter, it’s nice to surprise him for a change. Is it terrible that I think he’s adorable when he’s all awkward and uncomfortable, which seems even more the case now that we’re sitting so close? Since I mentioned having more questions for him, he’s started digging his thumbnail into the side of his opposite hand. Am I wicked to leave him hanging for a bit longer?
But I go easy on him to start. “What sort of work do you do? To pay to rent this place…your car…your security system around my parents’ place?”
“Oh.” He chuckles. Clearly, that wasn’t what he figured I’d ask.
“I freelance online, mostly IT-type gigs—anything to do with coding or SEO, I’m pretty good at those. It’s not a lot of money, but I get by. And it lets me choose my hours.”
“That must make watching me easier,” I tease, and his gaze narrows like he’s wondering how I can joke about that.
Although, feels like that’s the only way to get through any of this.
“Did you go to college?” I ask. “Are you in college?”
He shakes his head. “No. I would like to at some point, but I’ve been able to get work just fine without it.”
He keeps it short and to the point; he’s not making this any easier than when I was trying to figure out what the hell he was doing in the house.
I try another question. “Where did you learn how to use a gun?”
“My dad taught Mike and me.”
Again, it’s a short reply. Makes me worry that this line of questioning isn’t going anywhere, but worst he can do is be as cryptic about everything. “The other night, when you mentioned you knew I’d been in a psych unit, you said you understood, but I was so hung up on not going there, I never asked what you meant.”
“I knew she’d fucking blab,” he says through his teeth. He pushes his hands against the table as he gets up, like all he wants is to get the hell away from this conversation, and instinctually, I reach out and take him by his wrist, which makes him freeze in place.
His skin’s so soft. So warm.
His gaze shifts to my hand, then meets mine again.
Did I make a mistake? God, what if he doesn’t like being touched?
I immediately release him. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, it’s fine,” he says, a smile tugging across his face. “Just…nothing.”
One second he’s frustrated, maybe even pissed, and now he’s smiling. I can never get a read on this guy.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll understand,” I say, hoping to set him at ease, and he sits back in his chair.
“What’s there to talk about if she already told you?”
I figure the best thing to do is be honest with him. “She didn’t tell me specifics, but she brought it up when she warned me to stay away from you.”
“Maybe you should listen to her.”
“Should I?”
He’s quiet, like he’s thinking it over.
“You made it sound like my time in the psych unit wasn’t a big deal,” I add, “so why don’t you want to talk about this with me?”
“It’s easy to say about someone else’s shit, isn’t it?”
His gaze settles on the table as he seems to struggle with the thought of sharing with me. I’m racking my brain, trying to think of a way to get him to open up, and fuck it, I go for it. “Freshman year of college, I was staying at the dorms at Georgia State. I’d never had any major issues. Life was pretty chill. Supportive parents and friends. Good grades throughout high school. Felt like I was gonna get my bachelor’s in culinary arts, hopefully work as a chef, and get on with a pretty normal life. Then all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, something shifted in me. I shut down. Started sleeping all day. Not going to class. Telling my friends I was busy. Calling in sick to work. I’ve never had anything like that happen before. Mom and Dad would call, and I’d act like everything was all right. Lie to them about attending class because I didn’t want them to know something was wrong. And then more days went by.”
Zane wears a sympathetic expression as he listens. And despite the tension that knots in my chest, there’s something nice about having someone to share this with.
“On one level,” I go on, “I knew I was gonna fail my classes if I didn’t go, but it was hard enough to go out just to get food. It was like being a zombie, walking around to exist but not feeling anything. The next thing I know, I’m having thoughts about jumping out of the window in my room. Somehow that got me on a website where I could chat with someone. And I can’t even remember what I said, but it was apparently enough for them to call the cops. They showed up and took me to the hospital.”