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)
And I open the test.
It’s harder than I expected. Easier than I feared. Some questions feel like speaking a language I almost forgot I knew. Others feel like riddles I’ve only just now grown the brain to solve. But I keep moving.
Math is the hardest. Always has been. But I break it into pieces, one step at a time. Same way I’ve been breaking my whole life into pieces just to rebuild it.
When I finish, my brain is mush and my back hurts and I’m starving, but I walk out of that room taller than I went in.
A week later, I’m wiping down the diner counter when my phone buzzes. It’s Drew.
Hey. Can you take an early break? Meet me outside?
I frown, toss my rag into the sink, and head for the back entrance.
He’s leaning against his truck, arms crossed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He jerks his head toward the passenger side. “Get in. I’ve got a surprise.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re parked in front of a small rental house about ten minutes from our trailer. It’s nothing fancy—just two bedrooms, a porch swing, and a mailbox that leans a little to the left—but it’s got a homey feeling.
“This is for your mom,” he says. “Sober living is too far away. But this place, it’s sort of a half way in between place. The whole community is rentals for people fresh out of rehab. A church owns it and runs the charity. They keep counselors available for tenants all hours. It’s the next best thing to sober living.”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“She’ll need somewhere to land. Somewhere safe. I talked to the landlord. I’ll cover the first few months while she gets back on her feet.”
Tears prick my eyes. “Drew…”
“I know you want to take care of everyone. But you don’t have to do it alone.”
I throw my arms around him. He catches me easily, burying his face in my neck.
“You keep showing up,” I whisper.
“So do you.”
I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You’re not just my Hellion anymore.”
He grins. “No?”
“You’re the love of my life.”
He kisses me there in the driveway, soft and sure, while the wind kicks up leaves around our feet.
And for once, I believe I deserve all of it.
That night, we sit on the trailer steps with a mug of hot tea for me and a bottle of beer for him, watching the stars come out.
“She’s gonna be okay,” I say.
“You are too.”
I nod, smiling. “It’s a good kind of quiet now.”
He squeezes my hand. “Let’s keep it that way.”
And we do.
Two weeks later, I open the email on the couch with Little Foot sitting beside me.
I cover my mouth when I see the word Passed.
“Babe?” he says, concern slipping into his voice.
I just hand him the phone, eyes already filling.
He reads it. Then looks at me.
“You did it,” he breathes.
“I really did,” I whisper.
He lets out this joyful, unfiltered sound—half laugh, half yell—and pulls me into his arms, spinning me around until I’m dizzy with it.
“You freaking genius,” he says, kissing my face like I’m some rare prize he’s won at the fair. “You’re brilliant. You’re unstoppable. You—God, Cambria—I’m so proud of you I don’t even know what to do with myself.”
“I know what I want to do with you,” I murmur into his neck. That gets his attention.
“Oh?”
“Mmhm,” I say, already standing and pulling him toward the bedroom.
The moment the door clicks shut, the energy changes. I press my back to it, looking up at him with something between heat and disbelief in my eyes. “I passed.”
“You did.”
“I’m a high school graduate.”
“You are.”
He steps toward me, slow. Deliberate. His voice drops. “Do you know how beautiful that is?”
I nod. “Say it again.”
He kisses me, slow and deep, then pulls back just enough to say, “You. Passed. Cambria, you’re brilliant.”
Something in me breaks open at that, and I launch myself into his arms, pulling him into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and a little desperate.
He lifts me without hesitation, one hand under my thigh, the other in my hair. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me to the bed like I weigh nothing.
We fall into it together, mouths never parting, hands hungry.
But it’s not rushed. No, this is celebration.
He slides my hoodie off slowly, like unwrapping a gift. Presses kisses to my collarbone, my shoulder, the spot just below my ear that makes my spine arch.
“You did it,” he says again, his breath warm against my skin. “You worked for it, and you earned it. That makes me wanna worship you.”
“Then do it,” I whisper.
He makes love to me like I’m something holy. Like every inch of me tells a story he’s finally allowed to read.
His hands move over my body with purpose—memorizing, claiming, praising.