Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I clutch a second pillow to my chest, my skin all tingly with memories of him in my room—standing so close and passing the beer to me while we traded secrets. His body so close as he touched his forehead to mine and asked if I wanted him to kiss me.
Could it hurt to close my eyes and let myself imagine what it would’ve been like? I’m totally unworthy, and he’s a fucking football star—now a first-round NFL draft pick—but it would hardly be the first time I’ve indulged such a fantasy. In an alternate reality, I could have accepted that kiss. I imagine myself as the tall, thin beauty my mom was at my age, and I imagine him as just Easton—the boy who patched up my knee when I fell off my bike and who told me jokes when I was sad. In that alternate reality, it wouldn’t have been a pity kiss at all but something he wanted as much as I did.
He wouldn’t have asked with words. He would’ve asked with the slow descent of his mouth to mine, and I wouldn’t have pulled away. He would’ve tasted like beer and been gentle, and I would’ve been a naturally good kisser. So good, he would’ve groaned into my mouth like the heroes in romance novels do.
I flip over in bed again, whimpering in frustration.
My bedroom door clicks, and I stare at it in the darkness. Is Carter checking on me? I don’t know why he’s suddenly so worried about me and Easton being alone together. Probably because I got boobs. Finally.
“Shay? You awake?” The husky whisper is a tripwire in my stomach, causing all my internal organs to detonate before clumsily righting themselves.
I roll to my side, watching the door as I hold the pillow to my chest. “Yeah. Everything okay?”
The sliver of hallway light grows as East steps into the room. “Could I sit in here with you?”
Oh, shit. I know that tone in his voice—the subtle tremor of anxiety that sometimes hits East so hard he can’t function. I would do anything to make it better, but luckily, it doesn’t take much. I scoot to the opposite side of the mattress and pat the bed beside me.
Easton releases a long breath, and the light shrinks again to nothing as he shuts the door behind him. He lies down on his back on top of the covers. “Sorry,” he whispers.
I put my hand on his chest, right on top of his racing heart. “I’m here. It’s fine.”
He places a hand on top of mine. “Thank you.”
Gone are the days of self-deprecation for these spells of anxiety. The first time I witnessed one of his attacks, he was a junior in high school and it was the night before he was supposed to take the SATs. I found him in the corner of our basement, shivering and sweating. It freaked me out to see him so panicked. He couldn’t catch his breath and his skin was so hot that I thought he had a fever. I had no idea what to do, so I just sat down beside him and held his hand. Eventually, he calmed enough to tell me it was an anxiety attack, and not his first. School was always a trigger for him—especially anything that made him feel like he might lose a chance to play football.
After that night, it wasn’t uncommon for him to seek me out during the tough moments. For whatever reason, I’ve always been able to calm him. He told me he was comforted to have me beside him whenever he had to suffer through a full-blown attack.
“Just breathe.” I scoot closer, keeping my hand on his chest under his.
I hear him fighting to control his breathing, and his heartbeat slows incrementally. “Thank you.”
“Try to sleep, East. Everything seems worse in the middle of the night.” I stay close, willing my calm to seep into him until the steady, even beat under my hand lulls me to sleep.
I fade in and out of consciousness, dreaming of our drinking game, of our conversation from earlier, my brain replaying and rewriting the words as his grip on my hand loosens.
And when the words I needed earlier tonight register in my brain, I don’t know if they’re from this Easton or from my dream.
“It wouldn’t have been a pity kiss.”
Easton: Thank you for last night. You are the literal chill to my crazy.
I clutch my phone in my hand as I read and reread the text. I fell asleep next to Easton, but when I woke, the morning sun slanting through the curtains, he was gone. I thought I’d find him downstairs with the rest of the hungover crew, but apparently he had to drive back to Jackson Harbor before anyone was up.