Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Not the sexy times I imagined—no, this is more like a holy cleansing.
I’m motionless as Quinn puts the shirt on me, and MB buttons it up.
Quinn sighs, then pulls my sweatpants down to the ground as gently as he can. I step out of the ADIDAS pants and swallow the rock in my throat as he hands me the pants.
I shake my head like I can’t do this, man.
He nods his head like, yes, you fucking can, and you will.
I step into the trousers while he pulls them up, and then his hands are grazing my hips. He tugs me against him and presses his forehead against mine. “You will do this, do you understand?”
I say nothing.
His hand grips my chin; his eyes are a blazing heat of fire that has me almost stepping back. Who is this strong person? And why can’t I be more like him?
“Put on your pants,” he whispers. “All you have to do is put on your pants, and then you’re going to take a step, then another, then another, and you’re going to get in my car, and we’re going to drive.”
I finally nod.
MB grabs my jacket and helps me put it on, then wraps her arms around my waist, resting her cheek against my chest, Quinn comes next, holding us all together with his arms, and it feels right, the way it should be like we were always supposed to find each other despite the tragedy that led us here.
“You’ve got this.” Quinn slaps me on the ass.
MB laughs.
And I almost laugh too, but then I lock eyes with MB, and all I want to do is kiss her, and I want Quinn to see just because I want him to be part of everything we have.
Are we a couple, or are we now just finally whole in our grief and trauma?
Life, oftentimes, doesn’t make sense, so why does this?
The three of us.
I wonder if they’d freak out if I said I’m never letting them go, neither of them, that I don’t care what people say about us, about what happened in the past or could happen in the future.
“We’ll be late,” Quinn finally says. “You’re going to do great, Ambrose. Just speak from your heart.”
“I love you,” I blurt.
They both turn and look at me, MB’s lips tremble, and Quinn reaches for me.
“Both of you,” I say. “I love you.”
Quinn grabs one of my hands, and MB grabs the other.
Together forever.
We walk slowly down the stairs, and I realize that maybe I had it all wrong—this.
Is.
Perfection.
Chapter Forty-Three
Mary-Belle
He looks beautiful. His brownish blond hair’s falling longer against his chin, and his coloring is good despite still recovering from his transplant and walking slower. I can tell he’s trying to hold his head high, Ambrose.
I haven’t let go of Quinn’s hand. He’s taken care of me not because we’re in a relationship but because he knows I need a place to stay away from Ambrose before he makes his choice.
I stare straight ahead while Quinn rubs his thumb over my skin back and forth back and forth.
I turn toward my left and whisper in his ear. “I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always…”
It’s a joke we’ve had ever since binge-watching Friends when Joey does his special reading, and I know he needs to relax right now; he’s worried about Ambrose just like I am.
He lowers his head and smirks. “…As long as I’m living, my baby, you’ll be.”
Normally we both laugh, but today’s different. Today he kisses my hand and squeezes it.
I don’t know if Ambrose sees, but suddenly he’s up at the Catholic Church where the funeral is being held.
We have standing room only. After all, he’s royalty here in this town. He’s worth nearly seven hundred million dollars—at eighteen.
He owns everyone.
He has everyone’s secrets.
The weight of what he has—must be damning, and yet still he holds his head high. “I didn’t prepare anything.”
People start whispering.
He holds up a hand. “Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know what to say. How do you put into words the tragedy and gift I’ve received? My mom was a beautiful and ambitious woman. She was a great mom sometimes, a horrible mom other times. Some days we fought, other days we hugged.” He looks up and smiles. “She used to always say that love was interchangeable with money, that if you had enough money, love would happen, and then one day she came into my room, held my hand, and said, love is as endless as it is short, it’s your choice alone how long it lasts.” He sighs. “She left the room and didn’t mention it again, and my dad died a few months later. I saw a shift in her, in the stress of our lives of trying to be something we were never meant to be in order to keep up. So, while I’m thankful for my family’s legacy, I’d like to say, right now, I would rather be imperfect, I would rather show my flaws to the world. I would rather be the person people accuse and point fingers at than the person who has the constant stress of standing still while chaos ensues around me—knowing I’m the one that caused it and must keep it quiet. My mom taught me that in such a short sentence and moment, and my best friends showed me that all that matters is it’s not over yet, that they’ll douse the flames every single time because, at the end of the day, it’s about connecting with people, it’s about making the world a better place, it’s about selflessness when even at your most tempted moment, all you want is to choose you. Choose someone else.