Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69910 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“It wouldn’t have been literal!” No. Straight-up refusal is best. This can’t happen. This cannot be for me. Who does something like that? It can’t just be out of guilt. Not with Apollo.
“You’re exasperated.”
“I just need to sit down,” I mumble.
“You are sitting down,” Apollo points out.
That’s right. I am sitting down. “It’s too much.” I reach out and run my fingers over a leaf that looks awfully ferny. I’m not sure why that would be growing wild in the garden. “This isn’t something itchy, is it?”
“No. It’s just a fern.”
“Deadly?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“I’m so woefully unprepared for how to deal with all this.” This had to be the surprise. The surprise I turned down was that Apollo was going to tell me that all this was mine. But it can’t be. He couldn’t have done all this just to keep a childhood promise. “You can’t give me a house.” What does that say about the rest? Don’t read anything into it. Don’t. Just don’t. Control it.
A deep, ragged sigh. Apollo’s eyes are still honey and gold. He looks wistful and lost, like we’re both living in a dream moment right now. Moments only last for sixty seconds, and I’m torn between needing this to end and not wanting it to ever, ever stop. He’s looking at me in a particular way, and I know. I finally, finally know. People don’t look at other people like that. Like they don’t want to…to…mean something to them.
“I want to give you the house. And all the land too. It’s all yours to do whatever you want with it. You can sell it if you like. Go to college, donate it, or live here. Anything you wish.”
“Then where would you go if I took your home? Which I’m not going to because it’s way too much, even if you have more money than you know what to do with.”
“I always seem to know what to do with it.”
“I can’t take this house or the land. I can’t take any of it. I didn’t do anything. It’s yours, even if you borrowed my idea. That’s okay. I don’t really mind. It’s nice that you took something wild and imagined—a fairy tale—and made it into reality. No one would ever do that. It was…it was very special, and I’m glad I’ve seen it.” My body is leaning toward his, but I can’t stop. I can’t make any of this stop.
“It’s still yours, even if you want to give it away.”
“Fine. I’ll give it back to you,” I tell him.
“I don’t accept.”
“You have to accept.”
“I don’t have to accept. It would be a shame for such a lovely place to sit derelict,” Apollo throws back.
“Gah! You’re immensely frustrating, do you know that?” I shoot up out of the weeds and out of the garden. The mosquitoes follow me, descending on me at different angles. It would be undignified to turn myself into a slap fest, so I try to just brush them away gently.
Apollo follows me and fans the pesty bugs off me. He’s standing too close. It’s too hot, too much, too everything. This is the boy who was my past, and now he’s the man who is my present.
“I know you probably hate me, but would you ever consider kissing me anyway?” Damn it, why did I say that? Why, why, why? Right. Because all the parts of me that haven’t been under control for a single second since I saw Apollo again are coming out now.
“Hate-kissing really isn’t my thing. Besides, I could never hate you. I’ve been trying to say the exact opposite all this time and—”
I turn to him, grab his shirt with both my hands, and kiss him hard. The kiss lands half on his mouth and half on his cheek, but he angles his face into it, and then we’re truly kissing. It’s not a fairytale kiss. It’s not one of those nice, sweet first kisses people share and then talk about how good it was for the rest of their lives. This kiss is angry. It’s painful, it’s nasty, and it’s like a war, but then it softens out. It’s me softening against him, leaning into him. It’s my body meeting his, borrowing his strength. It’s my hands sweeping over his shoulders and muscles, exploring and learning and wanting more. It’s me making desperate, breathy, wanton noises into his mouth.
No. This isn’t right.
“I…I need to go,” I pant. A mosquito lands on my bare arm, and this time, I give it a slap to end all slaps, smushing it into a mess before flicking it off. “I need to go home. Where I belong. My dad still needs me.”
“What he probably wants is for you to live your own life.”
“What he wants is for me to be happy.” Damn it. That sounds an awful lot more like an argument in favor of me staying.