Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
The anger this time rose up out of embarrassment, out of shame, out of the bone-deep recognition of the truth in his words.
Yes, my mission mattered.
Yes, I was making a difference in the world.
Yes, my life was mine to do whatever I wanted with.
And, yes, it was okay to be selfish sometimes.
But that didn't mean I hadn't been rash and maybe even cruel with my decisions, with the way I cut everyone out.
I wrote my mom.
Every week.
I didn't miss a letter. Not even when I was trapped in a hospital bed recovering from surgery.
I tried to convince myself that was enough.
Even if a part of me knew better.
"I don't know who the hell you think you're talking to like that," I started, feeling my lips quivering in an old—and up until right that moment, seemingly overcome—reaction to strong emotions. "I understand I have things to explain and apologies to make. To my family. To people who love me. I get that. But you don't get to act all holier than fucking thou with me. I mean who the hell were you? The big brother to my friend? I didn't mean anything to you. If you took my shit on, that was a choice. You can't blame me because you wanted to be a martyr in a situation that had nothing to do with you."
"Nothing to do with me," he repeated, voice chillingly cold. An actual shiver moved up my spine. "You know what, fuck this," he said, tossing down the bag he had been rifling through, long legs making short progress from where he had been standing to the door. "Believe whatever the fuck you want, Ferryn. You always have. Guess some shit never changes."
The door slammed hard enough to shake the panes of glass in the windows, a sound that made me jerk a bit, not because I was even prone to startling, but because violence was not something I could have ever anticipated coming from Vance.
Apparently, I didn't know him as well as I always thought.
Or maybe he had changed.
It wouldn't be too surprising.
I sure as hell changed too.
Sitting there in utter silence, I could feel something foreign. A burning at the backs of my eyes. A hint of something impossible.
Tears.
Blinking hard, I fought them away, standing up, making my way to the bags he had abandoned, needing something to do to distract myself.
There was a loud banging on the wall to my side before a newly familiar voice carried through the apparently very thin insulation.
"That was a great prelude to an upcoming hatefuck if I ever heard one," Finch called to me, making a snort burst out of me as my hand moved upward, running my fingers through my newly longish hair on top.
"Mind your business, Finch," I called back, but couldn't even muster a little firmness to back the demand.
Not more than five seconds later, the door to Vance's apartment was opening, Finch taking up the whole doorway, leaning against the jamb, smoking, a beer in his hand.
"But your business sounds a lot more interesting, sweets."
"There's nothing sweet about me."
"All that sour, gorgeous, there is always sweet underneath it."
"Oh, a chainsmoker and troublemaker and philosopher to boot," I mumbled, folding the yoga pants Vance had picked up in simple neutrals—gray, black, deep brown, green—into a pile on top of the tees and tanks he had picked up as well.
"So, you've been gone a while, huh?" he asked, taking a long swig of his beer, still not moving from his position on the doorjamb. Intrusive, but with boundaries. I found I didn't hate the combination. And it was maybe nice to talk to someone who didn't used to know me, who didn't have all these expectations of how I was supposed to behave.
It didn't seem to matter how old you were, when you went home, you were an unsure teenager once again, apparently.
"You could say that," I agreed. Time was subjective. It had gone by in a blink for me. For those I left behind, maybe not so much.
"Homecomings can be rough."
"You have no fucking idea," I promised him. This was just the very tip of the iceberg for me. Vance was right, one or two or a half a dozen of my family members were going to ream me out. And I would have no real defense against it. But that was a problem for another day.
"Shit will shake out. It usually does."
"That is very naive coming from someone with a prison tat on his hand," I told him, rolling my eyes. I'd missed it before outside, the light casting everything but his face in shadow. But there was no mistaking the cobweb covering the whole top of his hand, a sign of doing a long stretch. And with the shitty, inconsistent lines, it had to have been done with a pen and lighter. Maybe that was how he knew a thing or two about homecomings.