Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
I know part of my problem with my entire situation stems from Sunshine talking to me so much while I was out.
My mind has correlated the woman’s voice in my dreams to her. The woman sitting in the audience at the wedding had to be her. She was the calm in my chest all the times I felt stuck in quicksand while watching Rivet with another man. She’s the only one then who could ease that pain in my chest, the only thing that calmed me.
That may be why I can’t seem to let go of this notion that maybe she’s supposed to be mine. But even with that thought, there’s no reason that the sight of her licking her lips after taking a bite of greasy pizza should make my body react the way that it is.
She isn’t moaning or doing anything to make me stare at her. She’s not trying to be provocative. It’s fucking pepperoni and banana peppers after all. It’s delicious, but not exactly life altering.
I resituate the plate on my lap, feeling like a fucking teen using a school binder to cover up the situation in my pants because I can’t fucking control my damn body.
It’s ridiculous, this idea in my head that Sunshine is the perfection I don’t think I was looking for even though I can’t remember the last five years.
She chuckles, covering her mouth with her hand as she continues to chew. Her eyes are locked on the television and mine of course are on her.
If she knows I’m staring at her, she doesn’t clue me in. She doesn’t look nervous or annoyed with my attention burning into the side of her face.
Her eyes dart in my direction, the smile falling from her face.
“We can watch something else,” she offers, pointing her half-eaten slice of pizza at the television.
“I like this show,” I say, more seduction in my voice than I should have.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, and I know she can tell I’m not talking about whatever is on the television.
She gives me another one of her familiar fake smiles, but this one doesn’t feel like a manipulation. It doesn’t feel like she’s trying to convince me she feels one way when she actually feels another.
It seems nervous, as if she doesn’t know how to act with my flirting.
When she came back into the house after her phone call, the conversation of pizza in a sexual way had fizzled. She didn’t seem upset, but there was a sad sort of resignation to her mannerism.
As she turns her attention back to the television, her cheeks full of pink vibrancy, I fight the urge to ask her what has been bothering her. I haven’t known her but for a few days and her issues could very well trace back months or years. She could have a complicated life, but there’s only a tiny sliver in me that argues against getting in the middle of what could be a very messy situation. The majority of me wants to fix all her problems, and that, in and of itself, is filled with more egotism than I thought I had.
I’m not a hero. Hell, I’m not even a problems solver. I can help people, but it’s clear she needs a level of emotional support I don’t think I have the ability to offer. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to be that type of person, from being the man she can rely on.
I shake my head, trying to escape those kinds of thoughts. I don’t even have my own life together. I lock eyes on the television, realizing that I’m focusing on her in order to keep from working on my own shit. But can I really fix my life if I don’t have a clue what my problems are?
I have a job with Cerberus. Although I know I’m qualified for that job, I can’t recall a single second of training or preparation I’ve done for it other than my time in the Corps. If they trained me on any level, it’s all gone now. I don’t know what their expectations are. Hell, I don’t know if I’ve even gone out with the team yet.
I woke up thinking I was madly in love, married, with a child. It’s a cold, harsh reality to be told none of it’s true. Latching on to the woman across the room from me, I don’t have to be a therapist to know how unhealthy it is.
“Did you want more?”
I look up, a little concerned that I got so lost in my head that I missed her standing from the recliner.
I shove down the fear that I might be regressing like the doctor warned me about and look up at her.
“No thanks,” I tell her, placing my hand in hers when she holds it out in front of me.