Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 192(@300wpm)
“They call it survivor’s guilt, but it’s more than that. It’s a wound that never heals. Odin was a good dog, the best damn dog, and he gave everything for me. I owe him to keep that promise and make sure his sacrifice meant something. So, when I got back stateside, I started working on it—a sanctuary for dogs in memory of Odin and the boys we lost, but I needed cash.”
He runs a hand through his Marine-cut hair. “That’s where my childhood buddy came in,” he says. “I never did anything unforgivably bad, Maya.”
“I never said you did.”
He’s looking at me now, and I sense maybe he wants to reach over and touch me. To feel that heat we shared, but something’s stopping him. “But you’ve been so…” he pauses, “… relaxed about it.”
“What do you expect me to do? Quiz you? It’s not my place, is it?”
That makes all this seem sour, like a business transaction, but it’s so much more than that. I don’t want him to think anything we share is because of work, but without him, the fact is, I’m done.
“Aren’t you concerned about working for a criminal?”
“Is that how you classify yourself?”
“It’s what I am,” he says, his tone getting sharp. “We always have to try and be cold, logical, honest.”
“Who’s we?” I ask.
He smirks, and I love that I can draw that out of him. “Just people.”
I thought you meant “us” for a second, I almost say, but that would be too much.
“I just want to keep Mom comfortable,” I murmur. “That’s my only concern.”
“Oh.” He turns, looking over at the garden. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to know something’s on his mind. It’s like he’s almost twitching with it.
“What?” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“It’s not my place.”
“Now you have to tell me,” I say, my heart rate picking up even if it has no reason to. Nothing bad is happening. Yet when he looks at me again, it’s almost like there’s judgment there. “Tristan?”
“You must know, Maya,” he says. “Your mom, she belongs in a home.”
I grind my teeth as my instinctive response tries to leap up, a “go to hell” on my lips, before I get myself under control.
“People have been saying that,” I murmur, “but it’s like giving up.”
“If this whole thing is about making her comfortable …”
“Maybe I’m uncomfortable with this conversation.”
He sighs. It’s like he’s trying to push something down. He’s already shared too much, but it feels much more natural than it should. Maybe it was a messed-up blessing when Mom mistook him for Dad, but this is different.
“It’s for her safety, too,” he goes on. “You know it. Your nurses must’ve mentioned it. Soon, there won’t be a choice.”
I hug my knees to my chest, sitting back in the oversized chair, looking out at the garden and trying to see the chaos Tristan described. Maybe it will make all this darkness feel somehow more manageable.
“You think I don’t know that?” I whisper.
“I know you do,” he says. “I know it’s painful.”
“After Dad left, it was just us. We were like a team. She was more like my older sister than my mom. Sure, I had to grow up fast, but that’s life.”
His eyebrow goes up.
“What?” I say. “You don’t think I’m grown up?”
His smile twitches. “I’ve never been any good with ages.”
“Ha, me neither.”
“But you’re capable. You’re fierce. You’re a good person.”
He reaches over and puts his hand on my knee. It seems innocent at first, almost like a friend offering comfort. When I feel his warmth, I can’t help it. I make a noise and put my hand over his. All his strength is trickling down my leg, making me ache.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’m just saying the truth.”
“Still, you didn’t have to say it. Thank you.”
He tightens his grip on my knee. Then I can’t take it anymore. At the same moment, he’s hit with the same feeling. He leans over, bringing his lips to mine. I move at the same time. We meet in the middle, half-leaning out of our chairs.
We don’t care that the neighbors might see. We don’t care how complicated this is. We keep kissing like our mouths are fused. He groans and strokes his hand through my hair, gripping my back and pulling me to a standing position. He does the same. He pulls me into his arms.
At the last second, before it’s too late and my body is too achy to stop, I put my hand on his chest. “Not here,” I whisper.
“It’s fine,” he says gruffly.
“It’s not that …” My cheeks heat up again. “It’s just, well, I’ve never done this before.”
I stare down at the ground. I hope he can read what I mean. I hope this closeness isn’t completely one-sided.
CHAPTER TWENTY