Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
"Is this you?" I ask, smiling at a picture of a little boy with dark hair and a big grin. He's dressed in football gear with a helmet in his hands. He's maybe six or seven, but even then, he was big. He looks so happy.
"Yeah," he mutters.
The next photo is of him as a little boy with a girl several years older than him. She's beautiful, with long dark hair. Despite the age gap between the two of them, there's no mistaking the family resemblance. They have the same sepia eyes.
"You have a sister?" I ask, looking up at him.
Pain flares in his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. "I did," he mutters, his voice flat. "She died a long time ago."
"Oh." I glance from him to the photo and then back. I don't think he wants to talk about whatever happened to her, so I don't ask. "She was very beautiful," I say instead of prying. "I'm sorry you lost her."
He doesn't say anything, instead stalking down the hall, pointing out the bathroom, his office, and a room that's been converted into a gym. I examine the photos as I follow behind him, unable to resist this little peek into his past. They're all happy scenes of him and his family. His parents were obviously older when they had him, but they seem happy. His mom is as beautiful as his sister, with kind eyes and a ready smile. Octavio looks like a younger version of his dad.
There's a lightness in his eyes in the pictures that's missing now. The man standing beside me has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I think he has for a long time. A couple of pictures down, I realize that they lost his sister when he was still incredibly young. He couldn't have been more than ten or eleven when she stopped appearing in family photos. In those without her, he and his parents look somber and sad. They smile for the camera, but their smiles don't reflect in their gazes.
In the space of a couple of years, his parent age noticeably.
"They're gone now, too," he says when he notices me looking at a photo of his parents.
"I'm sorry." I quickly glance away from the photo, my heart pulsing with a painful kind of empathy. I wish he didn't have to know what it's like to be all alone in the world. It's a special kind of hell…one he deserves less than most I've met.
"This is your room." He pushes open a door at the end of the hall, stepping aside for me to enter. He's tense, his expression closed off to me. I don't think he likes sharing his pain with anyone else. Part of me wants to reach out and hug him anyway, but I don't. Both because I think he'd view it as pity and because I'm no longer sure if I'd be comforting him or taking a little for myself.
I have no pictures of my past, no happy memories to display, and no home to display them in. I'm alone in a way that few really understand. Even when I had family, they hated me. And I'm not even sure if the father I remember is real or just a fantasy I conjured up because the truth is too painful. It hurts more than I want to admit, especially to this man who has his own scars and his own pain. He doesn't need to carry any part of mine.
So I focus on familiarizing myself with the room instead of dwelling. Like the rest of the house, it's nice. The furniture is dark wood, with a queen-sized bed against the far wall and a rocking chair in the corner. A small television sits on top of a dresser. The floor is covered with a massive blue and white rug that matches the bedding.
"The primary suite is right across the hall. It has its own bathroom, so you won't have to share," he murmurs, setting my bags on the bed.
"Thank you."
He stands there for a long, silent moment, watching me wander around. And then he clears his throat. "I'll let you get settled. Let me know if you need anything."
I open my mouth to thank him again, but when I glance up, he's already gone.
An hour later, Octavio pops in to check on me while I'm hanging up the last of the clothes he bought me. Despite being hesitant to accept them, he chose well. Everything is comfortable and warm, which is nice because I'm always cold. It's obvious he put thought into what he chose, which makes me feel bad for being a bitch about it. I don't know how he knew my size, but everything fits. Including the bras and panties…which I refuse to spend too much time thinking about or I might never be able to look him in the eyes again.