Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
I watch her trace the jagged mark, her pretty nail looking so perfect against the ugly, imperfect mark. “Good,” I whisper. “So you’ll stay?”
“Yes.” She swallows. “Tell me how you got this.”
It’s an effort not to shut her down with a straight no. And yet another opportunity passes me by. Or, more accurately, I run away from it, taking her hand and squeezing, my scar tingling terribly. “Ava,” I say softly. “I really don’t like talking about it.” I feel her tense, and I know I’ve just increased her curiosity tenfold.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs quietly.
I curse myself and kiss her hand. She’s sorry. She shouldn’t be. She’s making everything better. “Please, don’t be. It’s not something that’s important to the here and now.” My mouth is talking, words coming, all wrong words. “Dragging up my past serves no purpose other than to remind me of it.”
“What did you mean when you said that things are easier to bear when I’m here?” she asks, lifting her head from my chest to get me in her sights. I can’t bear the sympathy on her face. She could never comprehend the level of darkness I’m trying to leave behind. Trying to escape. And desperately trying not to poison her with.
She’s waiting patiently for me to answer, but I can’t, and my inability to spit out the words makes me so fucking angry with myself. “It means I like having you around,” I say sharply, pushing her back into my chest and letting my head fall back.
She sweetly rests her lips on my flesh and pain sears me. Pain for her. And if she hurts, I’ll hurt. This is a lose-lose situation.
For both of us.
35
An hour later, she’s asleep in my arms, breathing consistently and calmly. Her blissful oblivion is a stark contrast to the panic within me. I’m welded to the couch, unable to move, and I’ve been staring at the same spot on the ceiling for so long my eyes are dry. I’m certain if I could bring myself to peek at the woman in my arms, I’d find a blemish on her thigh where I’ve been stroking in circles for the past hour.
She stirs, murmurs some sleepy, quiet words, and I finally rip my stare from the ceiling, my chin pushing into my chest to see her face. The peace I find slices another piece off my heart. I’m content with her here in my arms, and yet in complete turmoil. And she has no idea.
I start to negotiate her in my hold, rising to my feet with her cradled against my chest. Her hold tightens. She snuggles deeper. “I love you,” I whisper, my jaw clenched as I convince my feet to move, walking to the stairs. If I tell her enough, will it seep into her mind? Will she ever know?
“I love you too,” she murmurs, and I halt, caught between shock and elation. But when I find her sound asleep, unconscious, sadness snuffs my joy. Will either of us ever find a way to speak those words to each other when we’re both awake and aware? She’s as scared as I am. How can we both be brave?
I carry her to my room and lay her delicately down, stripping her out of my shirt. Crawling in behind her, I curl every inch of me around her body, banishing all space between us. Her warm skin, the smell of her hair, the sound of her gentle breaths. It’s like a sleeping pill, and I doze off dreaming of my happily ever after.
* * *
“Hey, baby girl.” I drop to my haunches and open my arms, my heart swelling as her little legs run toward me. Her smiling face is like sunshine and rainbows, and one look at it rights all of my wrongs.
“Daddy!” Rosie dives at me, and I catch her, her little butt sitting just right on my forearm.
I rise and plant a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve missed you.” It’s been a matter of days, but each day feels like a week going without her. Lauren’s mother approaches, her usual look of disdain firmly in place, a little pink backpack hanging from a finger. She extends her arm, passing it to me without having to get too close. The animosity is rife and yet, thank God, Rosie is oblivious to the daggers firing this way.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting and swinging it onto my shoulder. As always, there are no pleasantries. No “hello” or “how are you?” Collecting my daughter is almost like a business transaction. A handover. I don’t hang around. Focusing on Rosie in my arms, who’s currently playing with my earlobe as she sucks her thumb, I find the smile that’s so easy to locate when we’re together. “You want to go to the park and feed the ducks?”