Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
She plucked it from my fingers. “Thanks. See you at the funeral home.”
“Bring a book. I'm not gonna be there for about eighty years.”
She slammed the door behind her.
The odds were not in my favor if her dad did come home, but if I left, I would be just like everyone else in her life.
Last summer, Nora might have wanted a proper goodbye and promises that I’d always come back—and all the closure and security that came with them. I’d failed her in spectacular fashion all because I couldn’t keep my temper in check.
But that day, sitting on her porch, I was the only person even quasi-brave enough to stand up to her dad. She needed that more than anything else I could ever give her.
“Why are you still sitting there?” I whispered at the window. From my vantage point, hidden behind the piece of plywood Ramsey had used to secure the window, I couldn’t see all of Camden, just his sneakers crossed at the ankle.
It had been an hour since he’d sat down declaring his intentions to have a “man-to-man” with Dad. Which, let’s be honest, was laughable. My father didn’t understand the concept of having a real conversation unless it involved shouting at the bartender for another drink.
Despite what I’d told Camden—luckily for all of us—my dad wouldn’t be home anytime soon. Based on the shouting the night before, he had, in fact, broken up with his girlfriend, but it just meant he was on the prowl again. Last time this happened, he didn’t come home for six days.
I’d considered telling Camden this information at the thirty-minute mark, but deep down, I was waiting on pins and needles to see how long he’d last before giving up and going home.
God knew I could use the support. The last few days had been a nightmare of emotions I couldn’t wake up from.
I tried to pretend.
I tried to forget.
I dissected what Josh had done to me, stripping it down to the most basic feelings and shoving them into all their disgusting drawers.
But nothing worked.
Physically, I ached head to toe. New bruises appeared every day, and the splinters I couldn’t reach in my back had become red and swollen. All that I could take.
I was no stranger to pain. My body would eventually heal. In a few days, when the bruises faded, I could ask Thea for help, making up some excuse for how the splinters had gotten there. Then, not too long after that, a day would come when there wouldn’t be a single trace of what Josh had done to me at all.
Nobody would ever know but me.
There was no magical remedy for the festering wound he’d left inside my soul though. The pieces he’d ruined inside me would never heal or even scab over. Guilt and filth devoured me every waking moment, but when I slept, the nightmares were worse. So the last two days had been spent in purgatory, staring off into space and crying.
And then there was Camden with his Coke and Snickers.
Sweet, innocent, oblivious Camden.
I’d wanted to throw up when he’d told me he’d followed me home last summer and seen my dad in all his drunken glory. My time at the creek with Camden was my safe space. He didn’t know about the hell at home. The fact that Ramsey and I were practically raising ourselves. Or the constant struggle to keep our ugly lives a secret.
All he knew was what I’d told him. For the same reasons I hadn’t shared Camden with the people in my life, I hadn’t wanted to share my world with Camden, either.
But he knew. He had always known.
And still, he’d come back.
Another hour passed with him sitting on the porch. He’d gotten up at one point and walked away. The disappointment of watching him leave was almost as intense as the relief that he was finally gone. The warmth filling my hollow chest and the tears that stung my eyes when I realized he’d only gone to the hose on the side of the house for a drink of water were the most telling emotions of all.
When a thunderstorm rolled in at the four-hour mark, I was positive he’d finally leave. He didn’t like to get his clothes wet at the creek and always wrapped himself up in his towel like a mummy. While thunder rattled the windows, the sky dumped buckets of rain, and the angry wind pelted him, he stayed.
It made me the worst friend in the world, but I sat inside, dry and warm, watching out the window in absolute awe that he cared enough to be sitting there. The broken and ugly parts of me were desperate to see how far he’d go—or, more accurately, what I was truly worth to Freaking Camden Cole.
Hour five, I paced, gnawing on my fingernails and getting frustrated. This was just ridiculous. What the hell was he doing? He was soaking wet, and despite it being a million degrees outside, every time the wind blew hard enough, he’d shiver. Why wasn’t he giving up? He must have been bored and hungry. He’d been sitting there so long I bet his butt was asleep too.