Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
She nods, disappearing down the hallway, and I stand there for a minute, listening to the soft sound of her footsteps, the quiet clink of the door shutting behind her.
It’s strange, how something so ordinary—someone using your bathroom—can make your chest feel too small. I don’t know what this is between us yet, but it’s building. Quietly. Powerfully. Like a storm that doesn't start with thunder, but with stillness.
I shower after her, water running hot as I try to keep my thoughts in line. But she’s there, in every corner of my mind—Cambria with her damp hair and that oversized sweatshirt I tossed to her for the night, the one that hits her mid-thigh and makes her look like trouble I’d gladly get into.
When I step out, towel slung around my waist, she’s curled up on the far side of the bed, legs tucked under her, hair still damp at the ends. My sweatshirt, wrapped around her.
I hesitate in the doorway. “You sure you’re comfortable?”
She looks up at me like I’ve said something ridiculous. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s a lot to take in.”
She nods then whispers, “come to bed.”
So I do.
The sheets are cool, the room dim. I slide in beside her, careful not to make it weird, but then she shifts—just enough that her back presses lightly against my chest. My arm goes around her like it belongs there, like it’s always been waiting for this moment. She exhales. Settles.
It’s quiet for a while. Her breathing evens out, and I can feel it, the rise and fall of her against me. My hand is on her waist, thumb moving slow against the soft cotton of my shirt. I don’t move to kiss her. I don’t even try. Not yet.
But her fingers find mine under the covers, lacing through like it’s nothing.
Like it’s everything.
And that’s how we fall asleep—two hearts beating in the dark, not touching lips, but sharing something deeper. Something that hums beneath the skin. Something that says this runs deeper than either of us are prepared for. It’s just not time for more.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
This is mine. Not club related. Not about my brother, my mother, my father, or even my damn twin sister. It’s about me and chasing what I feel.
Tonight is just this.
And it’s enough.
FIVE
CAMBRIA
Every new beginning comes after something else ends.
I wake up in a different world. After a long day on the road, we arrived in some town named Catawba in North Carolina. The guys were both nice the entire trip always asking if I needed to stop to use the facilities or if I wanted to eat.
I couldn’t eat even if I had wanted to. My nerves are at an all time high. Have I lost my mind? This might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Yet, the little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me, the flip side of this, it might just be the best thing I’ll ever do.
He is right. Drew is. About my mom. The woman in that hotel room, didn’t even care that I said I was leaving. In fact, she encouraged me to go and have a life without looking back. She said there is nothing for me with her.
I still don’t know how to process that. Even if deep inside I know it’s true, I never ever wanted to hear my own mother tell me there is no life for me with her.
Now, I’m in Drew’s home, trying to calm my anxiety enough to maybe eat.
The sheets are clean. The air smells like man and pine instead of mildew and old cigarettes. There’s no neon sign blinking through the window, no thump of bed springs from the next room, no muffled screaming or distant sirens.
It’s quiet.
Peaceful.
Terrifying.
Little Foot’s place isn’t fancy—it’s a trailer, small, lived-in—but to me, it might as well be a castle. A safe, still space where no one’s yelling, no one’s crying, and the door actually locks.
He’s not here when I open my eyes, but there’s a note on the counter.
"Back soon. Coffee’s in the pot. I’ll bring home creamer. –Drew"
I don’t even actually drink coffee, but I pour myself a cup anyway just to feel normal. Like someone who has a routine, a place, a purpose. I told him I liked it with more creamer than coffee because the few times I’ve tried the stuff it’s been gag worthy unless I drown in it in milk or one of the fancy flavors.
I sip it black. It’s awful. Determined, though, I drink it anyway.
My duffel bag is in the corner where I dropped it last night. I kneel and pull out the few things I own—two shirts, a pair of jeans, two bras, four pairs of panties, and a torn paperback I’ve read six times, and a picture of me and Momma from better days. She was beautiful back then. She was whole. Now, she’s a shell of the woman she once was.