Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
I’m dashing to open my apartment door, in a hurry to get to him. I don’t even check to make sure I’ve locked it behind me; I simply keep going, climbing down the stairs of the building faster than I ever have and bursting through the front entrance. At which point I stop, because he’s still there, standing across the street where I saw him through the window.
It only occurs to me now, as I stand here watching him, that he may not have been real. I may have conjured him up from my imagination. That would’ve been better than him being real. Because I do not want him here. I absolutely do not want to see him. He doesn’t get to just saunter back into my life.
I probably should’ve thought of that, though, before running out here barefoot and still in my travel-wrinkled dress. Because as soon as he sees me, he straightens up from the tree and starts walking toward me.
For some reason, I get so pissed at that. At his long steps and his Stetson sitting low, casting a shadow on the upper part of his face so I can’t see his eyes and tell what he’s thinking. Although, except for very rare occasions, when have I ever been able to tell what he’s thinking. The thought makes me even angrier, and I fist my hands at my sides, ready for him.
“That’s my tree,” I blurt out just as he’s within a few steps from me.
At my voice, he stops, and I finally get to see his face. Under a spotlight, no less, because of the streetlamp I’m standing by. Despite my anger at him, I can’t help but devour his features with my eyes. I can’t help but catalog every little detail of them because I didn’t get to do that this past week. The last time I saw him was in Marsden’s office during Breck’s phone call. He stood on the other side of the room from me and in a corner that I thought Rad would’ve picked for himself. He kept his arms folded across his chest and head bent with his Stetson on so there was no chance of me getting to see anything. Marsden did all the talking on the phone, while the group consisting of Peyton, Rad, Haven, and Axton huddled around the desk. He spoke only when Breck mentioned his condition for Peyton to visit him. Which quickly escalated into a heated argument that they had to cut the call to resolve.
Although now that I’m finally able to look at him, I don’t know how it makes me feel. First, because everything about him is so contradictory in this moment. His clothes are severely rumpled, but his body seems snapped straight. His stubble-beard is back, which should make him also look rumpled, but it doesn’t because of his clenched jaw. And while his eyes are red-rimmed and look utterly exhausted, I can see that they’re alert and awake. He should look lost like he did the night he rescued me, but somehow, he looks recently found. Which is when it hits me.
I hope it’s because of me. I still hope he wants me.
I hope it’s because he’s getting to look at me probably for the first time in the past week, too; and his eyes are frantically taking me in, devouring me like I’ve been devouring him. I hate that. I hate that my sight makes him look like he’s found heaven after a long walk scouring the lands when I know it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want it to mean anything.
“That’s my tree,” I repeat when all he does is stare at me.
“Your favorite,” he tells me like I don’t know. Like it wasn’t me who told him about it in my letters in the first place. “The one you saved.”
Along with telling him that it’s my favorite, I also told him they were going to cut it down. And it was him who said I should get the neighborhood together and rally. Which I did and hence saved it. Somehow this piece of information makes me angrier still. Because what choice did I have but to fall in love with him when he was so… sweet? I hate that. I hate that he always does things like this. I hate that I’m curling my bare toes on the concrete at how nostalgic his voice sounds. It’s ridiculous; I heard it six days ago. There hasn’t been enough time to establish the stupid nostalgia that’s running through my body.
That’s why I say something completely childish: “You can’t stand under it.”
And yet he responds like it’s the most riveting conversation of all time. “Didn’t know where else to stand where I’d have a clear view of your window.” Before I can say anything to that, he adds, “You shouldn’t be out here.”