Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“Hmm,” I say, picking up the coffee and bringing it to my nose. “God, why does coffee smell so good?”
He doesn’t answer me; he just laughs from the kitchen where he stands wearing the same thing he did yesterday. He reaches up to scratch his neck, and his shirt goes up just a touch, and I see that his pants are hanging low on his hips.
I close my eyes and take a sip of the coffee, and it’s heaven on my tongue. “Good morning.” I laugh and then see him shaking his head. I sit on one of the stools at the counter. “How did you sleep?” I ask him.
“Better than ever,” he says, and I tilt my head to the side, trying to hide the huge smile creeping over my face. “I usually only sleep five to six hours a night.”
“Why?” I ask him, the smile now slowly going away as I listen to him.
“It’s part of being in recovery,” he says, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Nights aren’t always easy.”
“What do you do when you have a hard night?” My mind runs wild, thinking about how long the night can be when you aren’t sleeping. I didn’t sleep well in the past two months, and the nights were the worst. Waking during the night and just staring into the darkness was the worst.
“I get up, sometimes watch television or surf the internet until my eyes get heavy again.” His voice still soft. “Usually, I just replay everything over and over again.”
“It’s the worst,” I tell him, and he just looks at me. “The past couple of months have not been good for me at night either.” I look down, not wanting him to see.
“Look at me, Zoe,” he says my name, and I look up. “I want to know everything.”
“It’s nothing. I should check my phone and see if Zara texted me,” I tell him, trying to change the subject.
“No,” he snaps. “You aren’t going to change the subject that easily.”
“I’m not changing the subject.” I get defensive because I know that I’m changing the subject and he called me on it. I look at him, and he crosses his hands over his chest. “What?” I say, throwing my hands up. “It was just a hard couple of months. I was busy, work was crazy.”
“Did it have to do with me?” he asks, and I roll my eyes.
“No,” I lie to him.
“You’re lying,” he says, shaking his head. “What was it?”
“What was what?” I’m confused at his question.
“What kept you up?” he asks me but doesn’t give me a chance to answer him. “I would wake up the minute I would finally get to you. The minute you would finally smile at me and I would go to you, my eyes would fly open.” He sets his coffee down. “What was it for you?”
“The scene I walked into,” I tell him softly. “The whole scene of opening the door and seeing you.”
He shakes his head and rubs his face. “That is not something I’m proud of.”
“I know that.” I pick up my coffee to keep my hands busy.
“But it’s a part of who I am, and a part of my recovery, so I have to take responsibility for putting myself in that situation.”
“Do we have to talk about this?” I ask, my heart speeding up thinking about that scene and trying to erase it from my mind forever.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes, we have to talk about it if it’s bothering you so much that you wake from it.”
“What is there to say?” I look at him. “What could there possibly be to say? It was awful, and heartbreaking, and I wanted to puke.”
“And …?” he asks quietly.
“And what?” I put my hands up. “It made me angry that you fought so hard to get there, and that this temptation was there.”
“The temptation is there every single minute of every single day,” he says. “It’s everywhere.”
“But you’re better than that,” I tell him. “You are so much better than that. Than what I walked in on. I can’t even imagine you being that person.”
“But I was.” His voice doesn’t waver. “I was that guy who did nothing but chase my next high. I’m not proud of it, but that was me in all my glory.”
“No.” I slap the counter. “You said the right words. That was you. That isn’t you now.”
He comes to me now and turns me to face him, his hands going to my face. “Why are you getting mad?”
“I’m getting mad because I get that you were that guy,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I get that that man is the reason you are this man. But I don’t want you to have doubts about being this man.”
He shakes his head, laughing. “You really are cute when you get all riled up,” he tells me, coming and slipping his tongue into my mouth.