Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Nothing about a sister.
Or bad decisions after he lost her.
Or any other places he hurts.
They keep it light and easy and I hate it.
I want more. I want to know. I don't care that it's messy and complicated. I want that part of him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
PATRICK
By the time we leave, Imogen is exhausted. She falls asleep on the five-minute ride to my place, stirs for long enough to brush her teeth and change into her pajamas.
When I help her into bed, she looks up at me with hazy eyes. "Hey Tricky."
"Hey." Something swells in my chest. Pride. Affection. Need.
She's so beautiful. And I want this side of her. The open, vulnerable side.
"Your friend… he mentioned something," she says.
"They're idiots. Don't listen to them."
"Maybe." She laughs, but there's something off about it. "About your sister—"
Shit.
"She died?"
"Yeah."
"This was her place?"
"Why do you say that?" I ask.
"It's expensive."
That's true.
"Did she own it?"
"Most of it."
"But that wasn't the main thing. I mean, as far as I know, your parents pay your rent."
"They don't."
"I'm sorry. It wasn't an accusation. I just meant… there's a lot about your life I don't know. That I didn't want to know. But this…" She rolls onto her side. "I wanted to know. And he mentioned it and I thought about the dog-eared copy of The Bell Jar…"
Does she know everything? How the hell does she know everything? My parents buried the details and I sure as fuck didn't tell anyone.
"What happened?" She lets out a yawn. "No. It's okay. You don't have to tell me. I just… I guess I was surprised by how much I wanted to know. I think… I think I like you."
"Yeah?"
"But I'm not good at sharing. I'm not good at feelings. This might be the only place I can really be open for a while."
"Okay."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Go to bed." I press my lips to her forehead.
She laughs. "Okay. Good night, Tricky."
"Good night."
She rolls onto her side and drifts to sleep.
For a few minutes, I watch her. I push my other thoughts aside. I try to stay here, in this moment.
I should feel at ease.
I should be bursting with joy.
Imogen wants more. She wants something real. She wants me.
But my sleep is uneasy.
The morning is too quiet, too awkward, filled with the silence that takes up all the space. The silence that always comes after I'm sorry about your sister.
I say nothing about Deidre. I suggest a video-session next weekend. She agrees enthusiastically and says goodbye with a kiss.
But I don't find distraction in mental images of us tangled in my bed.
I don't find distraction in my run, my shower, my lunch.
I don't find distraction until my phone pings with a notification.
An entry from Hearts and Thorns.
I did a bad, bad thing…
Chapter Twenty-Six
"Criminal"
Posted by Hearts and Thorns
Sunday July 2, 4 P.M.
I did a bad, bad thing.
Maybe I am channeling Fiona Apple too thoroughly. Because I have been a bad, bad girl.
And not in the fun way.
Okay, in the fun way. In a very, very fun way. A way I won't put into words because they could be used against me in the future case of The People vs. Hearts and Thorns for the charge of public indecency.
But hypothetically, if I was in public, with my top undone, his hands on my skin, and my entire body tuned to his—it felt so fucking good, and I want to be there so fucking badly. It's more than filling a strictly physical, medication-inspired need. It's spiritual. In a physical way, yes, but the way swimming is. I need it in my core.
I want him, physically.
And yes, the connection there is amazing.
But it's not just post-orgasm affection.
I want to fuck him all night and wake up in his bed. I want to screw him in the shower and eat oatmeal on his couch. I want to—
Well, you get the idea.
But it doesn't matter.
It's impossible.
His sister died by suicide.
I shouldn't know. Or maybe I should. What are the rules of social media these days? I follow him on Instagram, sure, but this wasn't on his page.
I had to go looking.
It wasn't hard. I knew her last name, after all, and I knew her likely friends, and I knew where to look.
But I couldn't stop. I found too much.
It was bizarre, reading the thoughts of a dead woman. The familiar, comforting, terrifying thoughts.
But it's not because I've betrayed him. (Have I betrayed him?)
It's because this is where he hurts.
And I can't be the person who tears at the wound.
Maybe that's an excuse. Cowardice. Maybe one of my friends will mention my history and he'll find out.
But then, no one knows.
Only my parents and they—
Well, they have their story.
I have mine.
I have an excuse. It's almost a relief.
But it's not.
Because I like him. All of him. And I want all of it, with him.