Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“How?”
“Bored to fucking tears.”
“She wasn’t what you were looking for?” I licked my lips, feeling guilty about drawing so much pleasure from hearing this.
“She wasn’t you.”
My jaw fell open. “I… We…” I wasn’t completely unaware. I knew Row was attracted to me. That he wanted us to be something, at least for the duration of our time in Staindrop. “I hadn’t realized your feelings ran that deep.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not as good a liar as you. I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s killing me. Killing me that I somehow ended up wanting the only woman I could not have. That someone came along and ruined you before I had the chance to even show you how great it could be. That this someone was fucking Franco. It’s killing me that I now need to spend the rest of my life trying not to kill Allison Murray, despite her being highly murderable. It’s killing me that we could’ve been there for each other, but we weren’t. That we could’ve healed each other, but instead, we just cracked deeper and harder. Most of all, it’s fucking killing me that I only feel alive when you’re around.”
This was his moment. His moment to kiss me. We were inches from one another. Drunk. Vulnerable. Sad. Full of so many emotions and cloaked by a silky sheet of starlit night.
But he didn’t kiss me. Instead, he pulled away, releasing his hold from the swing and ruffling the back of his hair, staring down at his feet.
“He noticed,” he croaked.
“Huh?” I sniffled, still stuck on the fact that he liked me.
“My dad. You were wrong. He noticed when you and Dylan stole his vodka.”
My stomach tightened. “How come he never said anything?”
Row licked his lips, squinting hard at the houses across the street, gracefully stacked together, like in Monopoly. “I took the fall.”
“Row, why—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t tell me that! We could’ve apologi—”
“Wouldn’t have worked.”
“But wh—”
“Because.” The roar ripped from his mouth. “He would’ve hurt you, and I’d have killed him if he did that.”
Stunned, I watched as he yanked his phone out of his pocket, tapped the flashlight, and tossed it into my hands. He stood up from the swing and turned his back to me, slowly raising his shirt. I aimed the flashlight at his back.
My chest caved inward. Scars ran like a busy road map across his triangular back under the elaborate ink. Long, jagged, faded, roaring poems of pain. Some pink, some white. Some shallow, some deep. All told the story of unbearable pain, years of abuse, and unforgivable trauma.
My fingers quaked around his phone. Violent nausea washed through me.
His back was still to me when he spoke. “My father was a raging alcoholic. He drank himself to near-death at least twice a year. Whenever he wasn’t catching fish, he was getting hammered and causing all kinds of trouble. Most times he went fishing in the middle of the night, I lay in my bed praying the boat would flip over and he’d drown. Never come back. You didn’t know because Mom and I wheeled him away from view, tucking him in their bedroom whenever Dylan had company. We tried to make her life as normal as possible. Or at least not as screwed up as ours.”
It had worked. I’d had no idea. I mean, yeah, Mr. Casablancas hadn’t been the nicest person in the world…but I’d never thought he had an alcohol problem. I’d just thought he was naturally grumpy. Like Row.
“I wish you’d have told me.” I rose on unsteady legs. His back was still to me, and I had a feeling he preferred it this way. “Or Dylan. Someone. We wouldn’t have stolen his bottles. We thought no one noticed. I can’t believe I caused this.”
His shoulders trembled with bitter laughter, and he slid his Henley back down, spinning in my direction. Molten amber eyes met mine.
“You didn’t cause shit. You were just teenagers doing teenager stuff. He’d have found something else to get pissy about and hit me. I mostly managed to keep him away from Mom and Dylan—not always from Mom. She had to tolerate some abuse.”
“And Dylan?” My voice was brittle, crisp, a crunchy autumn leaf under a boot.
He shook his head. “I don’t think she knows. We did a great job, and he worked long hours, disappearing days at a time when he was in the midst of his binges.”
I thought back to the flippant comment Dylan had made about her father passing when she had come to Dad’s funeral and didn’t know if Row was right in his assessment. Knowing Dylan, she did know but figured Zeta and Row took comfort in her obliviousness.
Taking a step toward him, I said, “That’s why your mom flinched when Rhyland touched her.”
The column in his throat rolled. “He’d drag her around the house by the hair when Dylan was at school. Kick her ribs. One day he—” He stopped.