Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“Not yet.” I tell her.
“Honestly, I think you should just do it. Send him a text, say what you need to say and then it’s done, and you don’t have to dwell on it any longer.”
We walk into The Pit and after grabbing some food and a drink, and settle ourselves at a table tucked into the corner. I take out my phone and open the messages app, reading the text again.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just . . . finding the right words to say, so he knows exactly how I feel.”
“So, write down how you’re feeling and then we’ll edit.”
I take Millie’s advice and write and re-write what I hope is a perfectly succinct reply before eventually hitting send.
I have nothing to say to you Adam. You used me and what you did is unforgivable. Stop texting me. I don’t want to see you again. I’m blocking/deleting you. The least you can do is respect my wishes.
I don’t wait to see if the three dots appear to signal a response is being typed. Instead, I block Adam’s number and delete him from my phone—and hopefully my life.
Once school finished, I decided to take a slow walk home and stop at the grocery store to pick up a few items for dinner. I’ve been slacking lately in my role as self-appointed cook of the house, and decide I need make up for it by making a chicken pot pie, together with some extra roasted vegetables, green beans, and roast potatoes. It’s not the most nutritional dish but we all need comfort food once in a while, and this is mine. I’ve just topped the pie with pastry and am dabbing some egg wash on the top when the front door opens, and the guys rambunctiously walk in. Clearly, they had a good practice session today. I pay them very little attention instead choosing to concentrate on finishing the pie, and answer automatically when Jude, Nolan and Devon call their greetings out to me. But I still feel a presence lingering in the doorway and when I look up, I drop the pastry brush in surprise. Kyler is standing there with a stoic look on his face, his knuckles white from gripping his bag tightly. I quickly take stock of how he is. The bruises on his face have faded and the stitches have been removed from his eyebrow, leaving a scar in their wake, and I’m instantly taken back to the night I nursed his cuts in the kitchen all the months ago. His comment about girls liking eyebrow scars feels like a lifetime ago. He doesn’t seem to have any problems with standing, but where Ky’s concerned, I’ve quickly come to learn this doesn’t mean he’s not hiding any pain—both physically and mentally.
“Hi, you’re back.” I gulp through the dryness in my throat and internally kick myself at stating the obvious. To his credit, Kyler does well at masking his expression and doesn’t give anything away to signal what’s going through his mind. I don’t see hate in his eyes, but I don’t see affection either. Somehow, I think it’s worse to be faced with indifference because you don’t know where you stand. I’d rather know for sure whether I’m forgiven or not. At least then I’d know how to handle talking to him. It becomes obvious a reply isn’t going to be forthcoming, so I fill in the awkward silence and start to ramble.
“I’m making dinner—chicken pot pie—with some veggies. There’ll be enough for you so you can definitely have something to eat. I mean, if you want to. If you don’t then it can keep. Or, if you’ve already eaten, then I’m sure one of the others will happily have another helping. Because, you know what they’re like, right? Always eating to replace all those calories they’ve burned off. I mean, of course, you’d know because you’d be doing the same, so—”
“I’m not . . .” Kyler’s gruff voice interrupts my one-woman monologue and the moment I hear him; I feel a sense of yearning at it being absent from my life for the past few weeks. His whispered words in the dark of night as he ghosts his lips over my body. The reverence in which he says my name when he greets me. His laugh at a private joke between the two of us. They’re all things I’ve missed so desperately that when he utters those two words, they’re enough to bring me to my knees.
“Son of a bitch!” Jude’s sudden exclamation prevents Ky from continuing with whatever he was going to say. We both look toward the front door as Jude yanks it open and storms out, yelling expletives at whoever’s outside.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Curiosity gets the better of both of us and Nolan and Devon join us as we go to see what the commotion is all about.