Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“You’re reading East of Eden?”
“I would be, only someone’s been hoarding it.”
I almost chuckle as I lean forward to grab it and pass it over to her. “There, it’s yours. If you’re interested in that one, I think you’d also like A Farewell to Arms.”
Her eyes light up. “I just finished it last month.”
We sit there for a while, letting our conversation shift to books, deciding which ones we think should be shelved as classics and which ones are completely overrated. We both prefer Steinbeck to Fitzgerald, and if we’re getting away from American classics, fantasy is our ultimate escape genre.
“Have you read the Mistborn series?” she asks, sounding hopeful.
“I tore through it in a week.”
Her entire face lights up with joy.
We could stay there the whole day talking books, but my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Harrison or Alexander, and if not them, someone else wanting to meet up and say goodbye. I ignore the first call, but another swiftly follows. I sigh, and she gets the picture.
“Do you leave tomorrow?” she asks, unable to meet my gaze.
I nod.
“You have so much to do, I’m sure.”
“Unfortunately.”
My room is barely packed.
With a reluctant sigh, I stand. I’m about to collect my books, but instead I point down to them. “Take them. Hoard them like I did if you want to. You’ll like them. I have impeccable taste in literature, as you now know.”
She laughs then nods, already pulling the top one off the pile so she can run her finger along the spine.
With nothing to keep me there, I start to walk away, but there’s a strangeness to the moment, a tightening in my chest as if I’m doing something wrong, failing somehow.
“Emmett?”
I glance back, relieved to have an excuse to look at her just one more time.
Her eyes are smiling for the first time since I’ve seen her, the green so vivid they seem otherworldly, more fitting of those fantasy books we both love than this dark and lonely library.
“Thank you.”
The words carry so much weight, as if she’s thanking me for much more than the books I just gifted her. Her brows crease in frustration and her lips part. She’s working up to say something else, and I linger there, giving her time to gather the courage.
Then she sighs and shakes her head. “…for the books.” Her shoulders sag. “Good luck in Paris.”
Part Two
Chapter Eight
Lainey
I grip the hard metal rail as the wind whips past. I’m standing on the balcony’s edge, trying to determine the distance between me and the concrete sidewalk down below. If I were standing on the second floor, I could maybe walk away from a jump unscathed, but on the third floor of my grandmother’s townhouse, the distance doesn’t bode well for my chances of survival, not to mention I’d likely land on one of the unsuspecting people strolling by, and there’s a difference between being suicidal and homicidal. There’s no need to take anyone down with me. Though, to clarify, I’m not trying to end my life. That’s not what has me standing here on the edge, looking down. It’s simply the idea of freedom that has me letting go of the railing and leaning a bit over the edge. It’s just enough to throw my balance off by a hair, enough to give me a taste of what the free fall might be like.
I swallow a squeal.
My heart is already pumping wildly, like I’ve fully made up my mind to jump. A cold sweat coats the back of my neck.
The bustling city block is completely oblivious to me standing up here. People race home from work to their loved ones.
I could join them.
I could be one of them.
A soft knock on my bedroom door has me twisting around in panic.
Margaret’s kind voice filters through the quiet room.
“Lainey, Tom will be here in thirty minutes to drive you to the club. Your grandmother wanted me to ask if you need any help getting ready?”
“No!” I rush out, my gaze flitting around my bedroom. I calm slightly as I realize there’s nothing nefarious in here for Margaret to find. There’s no crime scene to hide. She’s not privy to my inner thoughts. Thank god.
“I’ll—I’ll be done in just a minute. I’m just doing my hair now,” I lie, rushing over to my vanity.
It was foolish of me to stand out there for so long, letting my mind wander. I’m going to make us late, and if I do, I won’t hear the end of it for the rest of the night.
I sit and take a deep breath, meeting my reflection in the mirror.
I wince. The wind out on the balcony wasn’t kind.
My hair is as unruly as I’ve ever seen it. It’s curly by nature, my Brazilian roots striving in vain for liberation. Once, when I was a teenager, my grandmother told me when I wear my hair natural, it makes me look “positively feral”. So, for years, I straightened it into submission, topping it with that damn plaid headband. Now, I embrace the slicked-back bun trend, grateful for the time it saves me when getting ready.