Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
“You created the trick, dumbass. It wasn’t to fool you.” I yank my car door open. “I’m going. If I stay there much longer, I’m going to strangle her with her own fucking extensions.” I throw my purse across the car into the passenger’s seat.
“What do you want me to tell Tyler?”
I look at her. “Tell him whatever the hell he wants to hear.”
With that, I get into my car, slam the door, and rev the shit out of my engine. I tear out of the parking lot before she can respond and tell myself that the emotion in her eyes wasn’t real.
There wasn’t an abundance of fear and worry in them. They were simply concerned.
I have to believe that. Perhaps wrongly, but I have to. Sometimes, believing the wrong thing is the right thing to do. Sometimes, believing the wrong thing will keep you sane.
So I drive through the city, telling myself that what I’m feeling is totally natural. That any girlfriend feels the same way.
I park outside my apartment block and lock my car with way too much vigor. I take the elevator in the same way, jabbing the buttons way too hard. My key fits in my keyhole after three forced attempts, and the way I slam my front door surely shakes the whole building.
I throw my purse across my apartment. It lands with a thud on my floor, waking Angus and making him screech. The high-pitched sound goes right through me and I respond with one of my own.
I scream into my hands, bending over onto the kitchen table. All my frustration, all my jealousy, all the ramifications of my need for that infuriating fucking man are tangible and audible in my cry.
Only I don’t know who I’m madder at. Model Girl for making me feel this way or myself for allowing me to. I don’t know if I’m madder at Tyler for reminding me where the door is or myself for using it.
In the end, it all comes down to me. I let myself feel things and do things that are sometimes irrational.
But you can’t always help it, I remind myself. I can’t control the addiction. The addiction controls me.
But is that only true because I let it?
Is it only my controller, the truly dominant thing in my life, because I allow it to be?
No. I tell myself no because I don’t want to believe that my addiction is causing this. Through it all, through my fears, I don’t want my addiction to be the reason I walked out of that studio. I want my stupid fucking heart to be the reason.
I want to believe that there’s more to us and our fucked-up fairytale.
I want to believe that there are feelings, real feelings, that tie us even deeper than the bonds of our addictions.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe my addiction is ruling because I’m not allowing reality through.
Maybe I am falling in love.
Maybe I am falling in love with his crisp accent, his dirty words, his burning touch. Maybe I’m falling in love with the snark and the cockiness and that stupid love for snuggles.
Maybe I’m falling in love with the way he makes me feel.
Maybe I’m falling in love with more than just love.
Maybe… Maybe, in a cruel twist in Fate’s Big Fuck-Up, I’m falling in love with Tyler Stone.
I push off from the table and yank open the cupboard that holds my alcohol. I drag out the bottle of vodka and pour some in a short glass. I throw it back without thinking. The hot burn of the spirit sliding down my throat is better than the burn of my realization.
The burn of alcohol will always be better than the burn of a maybe-love.
Alcohol doesn’t hurt half as much as love. And the pounding head alcohol will give you is fixed with a glass of water and a couple of Tylenols.
If only Tylenol worked on the heart, too. They’d make a mint.
The glass clanks on the counter as I put it down. The vodka settles into a warm ball in my lower stomach. Shit, shit, shit. Fucking shit!
I kick the cupboard shut and look at the clock for the first time since leaving the studio. At least I lasted most of the shoot. That’s better than running at the first glance.
Ha. Running. I’m good at running. So much so that I should live in my fucking sneakers.
I pour another drink and drink it as quickly as the last. Shit. What if I am falling in love? What kind of fucked-up bullshit would that make our relationship? It certainly wouldn’t be a fairytale.
It would be nothing close to a fairytale. Not even good ol’ Walt could spin it into a Disney-esque happy ending.
Another clank of the glass against the side and I storm into the bathroom. I turn the shower on—full heat and full power—and strip off. I step beneath the burning flow of water and let it wash over me as it almost scalds my skin.