Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
So I do.
“It’s about the groceries.” I reroute to the beginning. “Because I want you around me every hour of every day. Not just as a bodyguard but as a boyfriend. In these small moments, I feel it tenfold. And I shouldn’t want it. I just shouldn’t. It makes me some co-dependent, weak-willed girl like all these people have theorized for years. I’m proving them right—and…and…” I can’t breathe.
I tug at the collar of my sweater.
Thatcher rushes forward and tries to touch me.
But I keep him back and press my hand to his chest. Applying little force.
His palms hover over my shoulders. “Stop for a second, honey. Just take a breath.” He gently cradles my elbows while I push a little harder. Uncertainly.
Fumbling, my hands fumble against his body.
“Just get away,” I say half-heartedly. My head wants him gone. My heart is telling me to fold into him. Let him wrap me up. Help me. God, I want that. But that’s the problem, I should be able to help myself.
“Please,” I plead.
He steps back, just one foot, and his hands drop off me.
“This is all wrong,” I tell him through frustrated, helpless tears. I wipe at my eyes. “I shouldn’t be treating you like this. I’m not capable of having a boyfriend.” At least, not him. Not someone I want this much.
“Jane, it’s fine—”
“It’s not,” I say, adamant. “We’re done. I’m done.” Oh God.
He grinds down on his teeth. “What are you saying?”
I’m wide-eyed.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“I am.” The words release quicker than I realize.
He’s quiet, and I gather enough strength to meet his gaze head-on. He wears the same concern and intensity that he started this conversation with.
“Are you going to say anything else?” I wonder. My body is still on fire. My heart in vicious knots. I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend. My first boyfriend. I feel no better than I did five seconds ago. I feel worse even, but I can’t take it back.
Thatcher adjusts his mic in his ear. “I meant what I said in the limo before this trip. I’m going to match whatever pace you set. If you want to break up with me, fine. We’re broken up.” I can’t read him. His tone is more authoritative and impassive than angry.
“So that’s it?” I ask, hurt suddenly pinching me. I didn’t purposefully break up with him so he’d fight for me, but I also never thought he’d give me up so easily.
“No,” Thatcher replies, seriousness pushing forth. “We’re going to talk more tonight. You’re overwhelmed right now, and I don’t want to push you. But if you think this discussion is over, it’s not.”
Oh…
He glances past my shoulder, and his brows furrow. He clicks his mic at his collar. “Banks to SFO, what’s the word on the weather?” Him referring to himself as Banks throws me off for a second. I follow his gaze. Flurries stick to the windowpanes of the market.
The sleet has officially turned to snow.
Security checked the weather before we left, so I’m aware of the incoming storm, but it wasn’t supposed to arrive until later tonight. We should have plenty of time, yet the heavy snowfall outside doesn’t look promising.
I take a tight breath and rub the tear tracks off my cheeks.
His attention is on me, watching every little movement. I feel like I’m unraveling, and I don’t know how to stop.
He clicks his mic once more. “Say again.”
He waits and lines crease his forehead. Something’s happening.
“What’s wrong?”
“Comms are fucked.” He takes out his cell, and I fish mine from my purse. I lost signal twenty miles from the market, so I’m not even surprised when I see No Service in the top corner.
“No signal,” I tell him. “We can ask the woman up front about the weather.”
He tilts his head towards that direction. “Let’s move out.”
We abandon our shopping cart in the aisle, for now, and Thatcher walks ahead of me like he does when we’re on a crowded street. Uncomfortable tension winds between us. We’re not together anymore. It hasn’t fully hit me yet, and I think when it does, I’ll be throttled completely.
Right now I’m just numb.
We find the elderly gray-haired woman knitting behind the register. She drops her large needles when she sees us approaching.
“Ready then?” Her Scottish accent is thick, and she searches for our items.
“Not yet, ma’am,” Thatcher says. “We’re wondering if you heard anything about the weather.”
She peers towards the window. “Aye, looks a bit brisk. Be careful on your way home. I should be locking up soon too.”
He sweeps the rustic check-out counter, possibly looking for a computer, but she only has an old manual register. I’d bet that she’s never been on the internet before, let alone Google-searched weather reports.
Thatcher must sense the same because he gives up with a polite, “Thank you, ma’am.” He turns to me. “We need to finish shopping in under five minutes, or else we could get stuck in the storm.”