Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Once I slide my arms under her, she mumbles softly. Her eyes open maybe a millimeter, and she mumbles again, but instead of telling me to get off her, she cuddles up against me with her head on my shoulder by the time we’re on our way to the stairs. It feels much too good, taking care of her. Even something as simple as making Mom’s macaroni and cheese is almost enough to make me proud.
Carrying her up the stairs, putting her in bed, it makes me feel warm inside. Like I’m doing something right.
And it’s a feeling I want to last, which is why, instead of leaving her on her own, I crawl into bed with her, inhaling the scent of her shampoo when I settle in with my nose close to her hair. So many years she’s been alone. I need her to know she doesn’t have to be alone anymore. If she wants me to, I’ll be here for her.
TWENTY-SIX
Elliana
There is something weighing on me. Something heavy, something warm. Something that is snoring softly by the time I start to return to consciousness.
What the hell happened last night? I vaguely remember knowing I was going to fall asleep—as much as I liked the movie, there was the very real fact that I didn’t sleep much the past couple of nights.
And part of the reason is now wrapped around me. Did Carter spend the whole night in my bed?
On the one hand, it’s sort of nice. It reminds me of a puppy I had when I was little. How he would always find a way to snuggle up against me in bed. You can’t sleep with that dog in your bed, he’s filthy. Yet another example of Mom’s loving guidance. It didn’t matter that I was happy.
I think I might be happy right now. I wish I knew how to feel about that. Maybe I need to stop worrying about how to feel and just… feel.
Then again, what am I talking about? This is still my stepbrother. There is nothing normal about any of this. And it would be dangerous to let myself think anything different, no matter how much I’m enjoying something as simple as sharing my bed with no threats, no pressure.
Until the thought of pressure makes my eyes fly open wide. “Carter. Get up!” Sure enough, a glance at the clock tells me what I already figured out. “We are so late!”
I finally have to shove him off me when he doesn’t move fast enough. “Come on!” I shout as I jump out of bed.
“Breathe,” he tells me, even laughing a little—until he sees the time and finally starts hauling ass. “Jesus, is it really that late already?”
“No, I changed the clock to screw with your head.” At least I took a shower last night. One less thing to worry about this morning as I race through throwing on clothes at random. That’s one positive thing about basically having a uniform I wear every day. I don’t have to waste time thinking about what to put on.
Carter, on the other hand, runs across the hall to his room, cursing the whole way. There’s a lot of fumbling around going on, along with a lot of banging and slamming.
“My ass is already in a sling,” he shouts before slamming what sounds like a dresser drawer. “Kingsley is going to be watching my every move, at least until Dad gets back.”
I almost wish he wouldn’t mention what happened yesterday. Nobody forced him to fight those guys—except for the guys themselves, who I have no doubt were asking for it. That doesn’t help me feel any less guilty for being the reason behind it.
Stop. You are not the reason. The voice in my head sounds a lot like Maya right now: sharp, to the point, and very annoyed. You didn’t do any of this. It’s not your fault.
I really wish it was easier to remember that.
We’re out of the house in record time, skipping breakfast, jumping into Carter’s truck, and almost tearing down the driveway and out onto the street. “It’ll be fine,” I decide as the engine roars. “Nobody’s going to care if we’re a few minutes late for class. I don’t think we could get in trouble for that from the administration.”
“If anything, it gives people less time to give me shit,” he muses, leaning on the horn when the driver in front of us doesn’t take a left turn fast enough. “Everybody will be too busy taking notes and whatever.”
When I laugh softly, I catch him looking at me from the corner of his eye. “What’s so funny?”
“I just never would’ve imagined you going through the same kind of thing I do,” I admit. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said that same thing to myself. The less time I hang around before class, the less time people have to screw around with me.”