Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
I don’t think I’ve ever felt more powerless in my life than I do at this moment. All I can do is stroke her hair and murmur that everything will be all right, even though I have no idea if that’s true. What I do know is that I’d like to stalk back inside their fancy-ass house and wring both of their necks for putting her through this.
I understand that they’re concerned about their daughter and want to do anything they can to help her. There’s no way I can begin to imagine what that would be like. But it’s apparent from their actions that neither gives a damn about Lola. Tony didn’t hug her or even try to strike up a conversation. Would it have really been so difficult to feign a little interest?
Apparently so.
He has no fucking idea how amazing and resilient his daughter is.
And it pisses me off.
When she finally quiets, I lift her face so I can kiss away all the tears that leak from her eyes until none are left.
By the time we said our goodbyes, Lola had relented, agreeing to the tests. I thought she’d wait, taking more time, but I should have realized that meeting Kylie would change everything. Even though she tries to project a tough exterior to the world, I suspect it’s covering a soft heart that can be easily damaged. And that only makes me want to protect her more from these people.
“You don’t have to go through with the testing. No one would blame you for changing your mind.”
She shakes her head before wiping away another tear that slides down her cheek. “How can I do that?”
I glance away as fury whips through me. “They’re assholes for putting you in this position. They’re not playing fair.”
“What’s not fair is that Kylie needs a kidney transplant at age sixteen.”
I press my lips together. It’s almost impossible to argue with that point.
Confusion flickers in her eyes as she jerks her shoulders. “Does it really hurt for me to get tested?”
“I don’t know.” I really don’t. It feels like a simple action that has the potential to open Pandora’s Box. I’m afraid of what will happen after she lifts the lid.
“It’s always possible that I’m not a match and then there won’t be anything further to discuss.”
True.
Do you know what will happen then?
Tony and his family will disappear from her life just as abruptly as they forced their way into it.
When the need to touch her pounds through me like a steady drumbeat, I wrap my hand around the nape of her neck and pull her close until my mouth can slide over hers. It’s nothing more than a gentle caress.
There is so much emotion crashing around inside me. I want her to understand the depth of it, but that would be impossible, since I’m none too sure about it myself. All I can hope is that it’s enough for Lola to realize that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.
As I reluctantly pull away, my gaze falls to her lips. They’re so soft and pliant. It makes me want to dive back in for more, but the desire to get her the hell out of here is stronger. With one last glance, I straighten and start the engine, maneuvering the truck onto the road. The drive back is made in silence, both of us lost in our own private thoughts.
Halfway to her house, she says, “I don’t want to go home.” Her gaze finds mine in the darkness. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Do you have someplace in mind?”
When she remains silent, I say, “You didn’t eat much at dinner.” Although how could she? The entire visit was stilted and uncomfortable. “Do you want to grab something?”
Her face scrunches before she shakes her head. “No. The thought of food makes me nauseous.”
“Okay.” I rack my brain for alternatives. A bar seems too crowded. Too noisy. “Want to go back to my house for a little bit?”
“Yeah,” she says with a sigh, relaxing against the leather seat.
As odd as it sounds, given her age, I can’t help but ask, “Should you let your mom know?”
“Probably. I’ll do it now.” She slips her phone from her purse before tapping out a quick message.
Even though I’m hesitant to ask too many questions, the words shoot out of my mouth. “Will she be all right?” My gaze darts to hers, locking on it for a heartbeat before returning to the pavement stretched out in front of me.
“She’ll be fine.” Her voice grows softer. “She isn’t responding, which probably means she’s already asleep.”
At eight o’clock at night?
Seems kind of early.
There’s a long stretch of silence before she admits quietly, “Mom has bipolar depression.”
I search the far recesses of my brain for an adequate response but come up empty. What do you say to that?