Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Truman groaned and began the slow process of dragging himself upright and seeing if any part of him was broken, crushed, or missing.
After only a second, though, warm hands were on his face and a familiar voice was asking if he was okay.
Ash.
“I saw you go down through the front window,” he was saying, voice concerned.
Truman was still gasping for air and couldn’t respond.
“Truman? Can you not breathe? Shit, let me call someone.”
Now he sounded panicked.
Truman shook his head and grabbed for Ash’s arm.
“No, no, I’m okay,” he gasped.
“You sound really bad. Maybe you broke a rib or punctured a lung. Your breathing—”
Truman snort-gasped in mortified laughter. “I’m fine. Just. Out of. Shape.”
Finally able to stand, Truman let Ash help him up. Concern etched lines on Ash’s handsome face, deep enough that Truman could tell they were habitual. Ash couldn’t be more than a year or two older than him, but already he’d had so much occasion to worry.
Ash slung an arm around his waist and helped him across the street and into Thorn, even though Truman could’ve made it fine on his own. Ash smelled like woods and flowers, and Truman wanted to press his face to Ash’s broad chest and breathe him in. But he didn’t, because he was sweaty and breathless and covered in slush and probably stank.
The moment the door opened, Bruce padded over and nosed in Truman’s crotch. Truman chose to take it as friendly concern.
“Here, come with me,” Ash said, and it took Truman a moment to realize Ash was speaking to him and not the dog.
“Oh, me. Okay.”
He trailed after Ash through the area behind the desk to a staircase. At the top, Ash opened the door to an apartment.
It was spare but neat and had a calm, if faded, aesthetic that reminded Truman of beach glass blasted smooth by moody waves and capricious sun.
He was led to the middle of the living room, gentle light spilling through the thin blue curtains, and Ash encouraged his jacket off. Ash’s hands moved over him with gentle precision—checking for damage and resigned to finding it.
“I’m really fine,” Truman assured him. “Embarrassed mostly.”
“I didn’t know you were a runner.”
“Uh, I hope after what you saw you now know that I am not.”
“I just saw you slip.”
Ash still had one hand on his elbow, like he didn’t want to break contact.
“I’m not a runner. I never run. I…” He was already filthy and pathetic, so he figured the truth could only benefit him at this point. “I wanted to do something for myself because I came here all heartbroken like a stupid, heartbroken fool, and then I met you and I got all bleargh when you left yesterday, but it’s really not about you. It’s about Guy. Guy’s his actual name. I know, it’s confusing. It’s about Guy and my stupid heartbrokenness, but then there’s you and there was the wine, and I was just gonna go run to the shore because it was so beautiful and, like, heart-expanding yesterday, so I ran and then. Well. Then I fell. Anyway. I’m fine. I mean, physically. Obviously I’m a ridiculous mess in every other way,” Truman finished with laughter bordering on the frantic.
Ash was watching him with a line between his brows. “Do you want to take a shower?” he asked.
“With you?”
The words were out of Truman’s mouth before they passed through his conscious mind. Ash’s eyes widened.
“Ohmygod, no. I’m sorry. Obviously not with you.”
Was there a mortification greater than cringe? Because if there hadn’t previously been, Truman was sure this was it.
Ash gave a tiny smile, and Truman swallowed hard, trying not to cry.
To avoid this still-greater horror, he turned and headed quickly for the bathroom. He threw open the door, ready to escape Ash’s beautiful, serene blue-gray gaze, and came face-to-face—well, nearly hanger to eyeball—with the closet.
“It’s…um…”
Ash pointed through the kitchen, and Truman squeezed his eyes shut tight. He gave a weak thumbs-up sign that he hoped would forestall all other communication and headed in the direction Ash had pointed.
Safely inside the tiny bathroom, he turned on the shower and sagged onto the toilet lid.
“Omigod, kill me.”
Once, his freshman year of college, he’d done something mortifying at a floor party—he didn’t remember what it was now, which should have been a comfort—and had fled to the communal bathroom to hide. He’d said something similar, and a voice, strange and inhuman in the echoey bathroom, had responded, “Don’t tempt me.”
Truman had been so startled he’d almost fallen in the toilet trying to get out of the stall. By the time he did manage to extract himself, there was no one there to be found.
He choked on a giggle thinking about it and stepped under the hot water.
To calm himself, he imagined what Germaine would say. Probably something like You just tripped! It’s not a big deal. And Ash is just a person. So talk to him like a person.