Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m losing control.
Marcus stands, taking deliberate steps toward our table. “Can’t breathe, huh?”
I can breathe, but it feels like I can’t. I know it’s in my head. I think back to all the therapy I did, all the sessions with Dr. Martinez. My lungs burn, and my chest aches, pain radiating through it with every beat of my heart.
Find something to ground yourself.
“Guess you know what it feels like to be in Chelsea’s place then, huh?” Marcus’s words, his voice, all of it is like little needles poking into my skin.
I need this to end, need him to leave, or else I need to leave, but my legs … I try to lift them, to force myself to move, but they might as well weigh ten thousand pounds. “Does your boyfriend know about what happened that night? Why everyone hates you?”
“I’m warning you, Marcus. Walk away now, or I’m kicking your fucking ass,” Lee growls at Marcus but keeps his gaze on me. I can visibly see his muscles coiling, tighter and tighter. He might look unaffected, but it’s obvious, at least to me, that he’s close to exploding. “Breathe, Pantry Girl. One, two, three.”
But I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t stop the fragments of memory from splintering through the cracks.
Chelsea’s voice: I love these cliffs. They always feel like coming home.
Marcus’s laugh as he kissed her cheek.
Chelsea crying about him not texting or calling or acknowledging her at football events.
My gloves squeak against the table as I press them to the wood, trying to ground myself. Lee notices—he always notices—and shifts, putting his body between Marcus and me without being obvious about it.
“I’m not scared of you, Lee. Your name might get you the royal treatment from others, but it doesn’t mean shit to me.”
“We’ll see about that.” There’s a warning woven in Lee’s response.
“Be warned, Sterling, whatever that girl touches, she destroys, so be careful, or you might end up just like Chelsea.”
I won’t lie. It hurts to hear him say such a terrible thing, but I can’t change his feelings or thoughts about me. Therapy helped me realize that I’m not the problem for Marcus. I’m just the easiest available outlet for his anger, but that doesn’t make anything he says true.
Turning, he retreats to his table without looking back.
“Piece of fucking shit,” Lee mutters under his breath. His body is drawn tight, like a bowstring, and even if he wears a look of rage on his face, he stays beside me, remaining in a protective position.
He reaches across the table and gently unfolds my clenched fingers.
“Talk to me,” he whispers, and for a moment, I want to tell him everything.
About Chelsea. About that night. About why I count things and wear gloves and the real reason I can’t stop being afraid.
Except when I open my mouth, the words don’t come out. They stick in my throat, trapped behind two years of silence, therapy, and walls that I built to protect myself.
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes.
No, I will not cry. I will not give him that satisfaction. Tipping my head back, I stare at the ceiling and count the tiles, waiting for the feeling to subside. And Lee, wonderful, patient Lee, counts with me.
It’s brief moments like this that make me question if this could really be real? But then the bubble bursts when reality reminds me of how messed up I already am and how one perfect moment together doesn’t mean we magically fit together.
Lee doesn’t ask questions when I stumble to my feet. Instead, he smoothly rises with me. His body remains perfectly angled between Marcus and me, a shield I didn’t ask for but one I desperately need. My quick, jerky movements make the books scatter across the table, perfect order dissolving like my sanity.
“I need …” The words catch in my throat. What do I need?
Space? Air? Time to rewind two years so I can save Chelsea?
“Outside,” Lee suggests, already gathering my things with careful precision. He remembers the order—textbooks largest to smallest, notebooks by subject, pencils aligned by length. When did he learn these things about me?
Marcus’s laughter follows us toward the door. “Can’t run away from all your problems.”
I’ve barely made it outside and out of view when my legs give out beneath me. I’m not sure how, but Lee catches me before I hit the ground; his arms circle my waist, and he pulls me into his chest. His strength and warmth encompass me, and his rich, masculine scent cradles me. He walks us to a nearby bench, holding me tight to his chest.
It still surprises me that his touch doesn’t set me off or send me into further panic. Skin contact always makes me nuclear—but not Lee’s. Whenever he touches me, I come apart, excitement replacing the usual fear because I know deep down Lee cares.