Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 20243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
“It’s been an amazing night, Cole. Thank you.” A small glimmer of hope left Spencer’s eyes. “And if I don’t see you again, just know that this night with you was different from all the others.”
Cole didn’t want to go, but he knew if he didn’t get moving now, he was going to end up begging and perhaps coercing Spencer into doing something he wasn’t ready to do.
He wrapped his arms around Spencer’s lean frame and held him tight. He didn’t believe that both of them really hated this time of year. Maybe they were just tired of being alone.
He pulled away, their cheeks brushing each other. One more kiss, his mind screamed, but if he didn’t go now, it would only make leaving that much harder.
He placed a delicate, lingering kiss in the center of Spencer’s forehead. Merry Christmas, my beautiful grinch.
Spencer’s gaze was so full of sadness Cole was about to cave.
“I’ll be waiting,” he rasped.
He got into the back seat of the car, letting Axel close his door. He couldn’t turn around and watch Spencer watch him leave.
Spencer
Spencer was buried under his duvet, a down comforter, and six pillows, and he still couldn’t drown out the pounding bass of his stoner neighbor’s New Year’s Eve party.
What the fuck?
He’d worked a full shift yesterday—he was exhausted. He bet none of those little spoiled bastards partying up there even worked a job—and DoorDashing didn’t fucking count—one that was paid with a check and taxes taken out.
“That’s what’s wrong with the world today, you dumbasses! Pay your fuckin’ taxes!” Spencer screamed through the walls.
What he was saying made no sense, but he was high on Benadryl.
Spencer pressed the pillow harder to his ears. If only he could call the cops. But what shitty person reported noise disturbances on this night?
Me.
He squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to remember how he used to spend every New Year’s Eve. It damn sure wasn’t with a bunch of rowdy, ignorant people getting drunk and making false promises to next year.
His parents were writers, thinkers, which meant he grew up in a quiet home where reading was the fun time.
On New Year’s Eve, his parents used to let him sit between them while he read his new comic, Spencer’s World of Unimaginable Tales. He remembered laughing his ass off and rolling all over them while they waited as a family for the ball to drop.
Pain hit his chest first, then his stomach, before he folded in on himself. Tears filled his eyes and threatened to overflow, but he wouldn’t cry, damnit. Don’t, please.
Spencer scurried from under his fort and grabbed his earbuds and the bottle of melatonin off the nightstand. He shoved them in and turned up his anti-holiday playlist, then popped two dissolvable tablets in his mouth.
Spencer pulled the covers back over his head, ready to sleep the night away, but he was startled awake by some loud whooping and fireworks going off outside his window.
Spencer growled so loud it irritated his throat. I swear to god I’m gonna begin the new year in jail.
If he didn’t live alone, couldn’t fight worth shit, and detested violence, he’d go up there and curse every one of them out, then take any speakers he found and chuck them over the balcony.
Needing to piss, Spencer threw his legs over the edge of the bed and rested his forehead in his palm. He glanced at his cell phone and quickly regretted it.
Shit! It was only nine forty-five. Midnight wasn’t even close.
Spencer lived in a two-story building a couple of blocks from the Westmore College campus. It had four apartments with two on each side, and unfortunately, he was on the bottom.
Spencer slammed his bathroom door shut so hard it knocked his framed picture of Shakespeare off the wall. He finished his business, took another long, hot shower because he had nothing else to do, then returned to bed.
He had no appetite, no desire to do anything but stay under the covers. It was pathetic and sad, but no matter how hard he tried to feel differently, he couldn’t ward off the depression.
The reality was it wasn’t just Christmas and New Year’s that Spencer was alone. It was also on Valentine’s Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, and the next day, and the next day after that. All three hundred sixty-five days of the year, he was always alone.
He touched his fingertips to his lips and thought of Cole. He thought of how different he was. He didn’t act like money—all-knowing and pretentious—because he’d been around it all of his life. It didn’t rule his world, and Spencer liked that.
I should’ve called him. He frowned. He also could’ve called me.
Spencer took another dose of melatonin, then reached for his tablet, hoping some mindless web surfing would knock him out.