Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“Anything else planned today?” he asks as he gathers my bags from the trunk after pulling up to my house.
“No. I’m staying here.”
He hands over the bags, nodding once before climbing back into the driver’s seat and pulling away.
Princess is happy to see me, her tail wagging when I open the door.
“I got your favorite treats at the market,” I tell her, ecstatic that she still cares for me.
I don’t hesitate to give her the promised treats before putting away the rest of the groceries.
This week has felt like a lifetime, each day longer than the next.
It makes me feel the urge to be destructive, to do something crazy, because I’ve been spending too much time alone, but I refuse. I did that last time and Brooks showed up to rescue me, and despite it ending with several weeks of pure bliss, it’s left me broken.
I can admit I’m sad and angry. I know I’m heartbroken but acting out won’t stop any of it. Brooks showing up to help would only end the same way, and I’ll never heal if I keep that shit up.
Instead of calling a cab to take me to a bar in the middle of the day, I pull out my yoga mat, strip to my boxers, and perform the routine that has become second nature for as many times as I’ve done it in recent days.
Princess sits on the area rug, munching away at her treat, keeping her eyes on me. It’s reminiscent of Dr. Kent, who also watched me like she wasn’t sure if I was honestly okay or if she needed to call the people in the white coats to take me away for evaluation.
When the yoga isn’t enough, I head up the stairs. My bedroom means self-pity and depression because being in there makes me think of him.
I can’t risk going into the Hot Wheels room or the bottle cap room because I’d probably destroy them in a fit of rage.
I haven’t been in my music room in months, and for some reason I can no longer resist the urge. The place feels like a tomb when I walk inside, but I find I like the silence. It’s somehow louder than the noise in my head.
I run my finger over the top of the piano, keeping my eyes off the drum set Fletcher left behind. I’m not ready to deal with those demons just yet.
“One fucking thing at a time,” I mutter.
My eyes fall on the open notebook and the scribbled words written the night before I abandoned music. It’s a song Fletcher and I were working on, and as much as I want to avoid thoughts of him, I have to smile.
The happiest I’ve ever been was the weeks I spent with Brooks after our trip to California. When I should’ve been at my lowest with the dissolution of the band, I was soaring on the highest of highs. I was untouchable, content.
It wasn’t perfect, but mentally, I was in a good place with Fletcher before the pictures of us together went viral.
I look down at the notebook, remembering the hours we spent in here, getting those words on the paper.
“They won’t be mad,” Fletcher assures me, his palm on my back.
I pull the pencil from between my teeth and jot down another line.
“I’m not interested.” I say the words dismissively as if he’s not upset that I refuse to tell even our other bandmates that we’ve been together for years.
The problem isn’t exactly telling them, it’s coming out as a couple that bothers me the most.
I’ve grown accustomed to Fletcher being around. I like that he has been so willing to explore my sexuality with me. I need that from him, but I realized not long into whatever this is between us that I don’t want more from him. I don’t shut him down when he calls me his boyfriend. I don’t tell him we’re just having fun. It seems like a hateful thing to do after such a long period of time, but I also can’t give him more.
“Seriously,” he snaps, pulling his hand back. “People are going to find out, eventually.”
“They won’t,” I argue. “We’re good about keeping it secret.”
“I’m tired of the fucking secrets, Archer.”
“And I told you from the beginning that I never wanted anyone to find out.”
“You don’t think they’re suspicious? You really think they still consider us roommates after all this time?”
I push the pencil back between my lips, my fingers strumming aimlessly on the guitar in my lap. “Getting angry isn’t going to change my mind.”
“I need more. We either tell everyone or this ends.”
I blink up at him, realizing that after three years of what most people would consider a relationship, I should feel nervous about this moment. I don’t. It makes me an asshole, but I won’t allow my hand to be forced.