Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Everything shatters, knowing just how close we could have been, and how easy it would be for me to tell him that I already know. That I know about his past and what’s keeping him at arm’s reach, but I won’t do that to him, not when he’s clearly not ready to open that door.
“But what about you?”
“What about me?” he asks as though what he feels doesn’t even matter.
“You feel this, too. I know you do, you can deny it all you want, but I know it’s there,” I tell him, willing him to hold on to this, willing to give it just the slightest chance to see where this could go. “When do you get to be happy?”
The softest smile pulls across his face, and when he brushes his fingers across my jaw and trails them up into my hairline, I see it clear as day. He doesn’t just have feelings for me. He’s in love with me, too. “Baby, just knowing you exist in this world is enough for me.”
The heaviest weight constricts around my chest, and I lift my chin just a fraction, closing the gap between us and pressing my lips to his with a brief kiss. “But that’s not enough for me.”
“I know.”
“So, what now? Am I supposed to just go on, pretending that I don’t already belong entirely to you?”
“Yeah, hellcat,” he tells me, his chest vibrating against mine. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
22
TILLY
Spaghetti bolognese drops from my fork and splatters across the front of my Don’t be afraid to get on top. If he dies, he dies shirt, but honestly, it’s Friday afternoon. I’ve been wearing the same clothes since Monday, too depressed to get my ass off the couch and back to reality.
It hurts too much.
I gave up too easily. I let him slip right through my fingers. I should have put up more of a fight, shouldn’t have taken no for an answer. Instead, I crumbled and let his demons rule his decision, just as they’ve ruled his whole damn life.
He doesn’t believe that he deserves happiness or is entitled to love, but in that belief, he’s stripping me of my right to love him in return, and it guts me.
Dropping my fork back into the take-out container, I grab my stained shirt and lift it to my mouth, licking the dollop of bolognese sauce right off the material, not giving a damn about what other filth might exist on my shirt right now.
I’m a slob, and nothing anybody says is going to change that right now.
Except for maybe Caesar. If he were to walk in and see me like this, I would die. I would physically melt into my floorboards, leaving nothing but my shitty, stained shirt behind. Though that might just be the kick up the ass I need to get myself off the couch.
How pathetic is that? I’m officially one of those girls who spends a week crying over a man—a man who specifically warned me not to fall in love with him. I suppose it’s my own fault. I didn’t heed his warning. I flew straight into the danger zone, not giving a damn how it would destroy me. I was stupid enough to believe that falling in love wasn’t something I was capable of. Now it’s been four days since I’ve seen him, and all I’ve done is stare at my phone, hoping like hell he messages me. Even if all he says is that I’m a fool for letting him get that close.
Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
Even more so that I’ve spent the last two hours figuring out my new Cricut machine and making my own slogan shirts instead of having to order them online, and to be completely honest, this shit is harder than it seems.
I put the finishing touches on my new My son’s girl screams louder than yours shirt. It looks horrendous, proving once and for all why I should never be allowed near an arts and crafts table. Sure, was I pathetic enough to order a shirt four sizes too big for me so that when I wear it, it feels as though it’s one of Caesar’s? Absolutely.
As I bawl my ridiculous eyes out, I pull the massive shirt right over my head, hiding my stained one beneath before slinking through my small apartment and looking at myself in the full-length mirror.
I’m a literal mess—but with a clean and slightly lopsided new slogan shirt, I’m practically brand new. We’re just going to ignore the stench that’s been wafting off me for the better part of two days.
Goddamn it.
I flop down against my bed, starfishing on this bitch, when my phone chimes from somewhere in the living room. I spring off my bed like a fucking frog on crack, run into the living room, and scavenge through the flood of blankets, cushions, and food scraps left discarded on the couch. I’m hoping like hell it’s Caesar coming to his damn senses and realizing that he can’t possibly live without me.