Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“That depends on what you want to know.” She hasn’t asked a single question since we’ve started hooking up. She’s smart enough to know. Maybe smart enough to know not to ask too.
Finally, her gorgeous green eyes look back at me and she presses, “Would you tell me the truth if I did? Tyler never did.”
“Tyler wasn’t ever involved in anything serious.” I ignore how everything in me turns cold at the mention of his name. Being with Addison … knowing he was her first. It hurts to swallow as she keeps talking. Especially after the memory of my father. I don’t like to remember.
She answers me, “Your version of serious and mine are different, I think.”
The time passes as I fail to come up with a response. She doesn’t need to know about any of this shit. It would be better if she didn’t.
Another second. Another thought.
“Is that why you left him?” I ask her and although it hurts deep down in my core, I need to know if her idea of what he did for work is what made her leave him. I don’t say his name though.
“I don’t want to talk about that night.” Her answer comes out sharper than I expect. With a bite and a threat not to question her. It only makes me that much more curious.
“The night you broke things off?” I ask her to clarify. That night isn’t the one that haunts me. That’s not the night that’s unspeakable to me.
Addison stands on shaky legs with her back to me. Finding her packed bag and unzipping it as she speaks.
“I just don’t like thinking about how the last couple of times I saw him I was turning him away,” she says with a tinge of emotion I don’t like to hear. The kind of emotion that’s indicative of love.
A love I know for certain he had for her.
“You weren’t the first seventeen-year-old girl to end a high school relationship,” I remind her and also me. It was puppy love. That’s all it ever was.
“Yeah well, I didn’t know what it would lead to,” she says and her voice trembles as she slips on a pair of underwear and sweatpants.
I’m not sure I want to know the answer, but I have to ask. “So if you could go back?”
Addison’s quiet at my question and I walk toward her although her back is still to me. “If you could go back, you’d still be with him?” Her hesitation makes my muscles tighten. My fist clenches as a tic in my jaw spasms.
I’ve been kidding myself to think otherwise. Of course she’d be with him and not me. My breathing comes in ragged as she answers.
“If he were here now--” she starts to say, but I cut her off.
“He’s not, and he never will be.” The anger simmers. Everything that’s been pushed down for so long rises up quickly. All the years of control and denial.
The hate that my brother was taken from me. And the pain of knowing it was my fault and that I’ve never told a soul. I could tell her now. But I never would. It’s too late to confess.
Addison turns to face me with wide eyes. “Don’t say that.”
Maybe it’s the denial, the guilt that plagues me. But I sneer at her, “You think it’s easy for me? You got over his death far easier than I did.”
I don’t see the slap coming until the sting greets my cheek. My hand instinctively moves to where she’s struck me. I flex my jaw and feel the burn radiate down the side of my face.
Her beautiful countenance is bright red with anger and her eyes are narrowed. I’ve never seen her this full of rage. Never.
Her hands tremble as she yells at me.
“You don’t know how many nights his death haunted me!”
I do.
Her voice wavers and I know she’s on the verge of tears. The kind that paralyze you because they’re so overwhelming. But instead of giving in to grief, she screams at me.
“You don’t know how I blamed myself to the point where I begged God to just kill me and let me take his place.” She takes each breath in heavily.
I do.
Adrenaline rushes through my blood. The hate, the shame, and the unrelenting guilt surge within me. And I can’t say anything back. I can’t have this conversation with her.
When I don’t say anything, when I feel myself shutting down, she snaps. “Fuck you,” she tries to yell at me but her voice cracks as she grabs her bag and storms out of the room.
She doesn’t have her shoes on and she’s not wearing a bra under my shirt.
“You’re not leaving?” It’s meant to be a statement but the question is there in the undertone. All because I said she got over his death easier than I did? It’s a fact. I fucking know it is.