Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
She wasn’t diagnosed. Nobody noticed this about her—not even Irina noticed this about herself—because turning off your feelings was just part of growing up in our world. Feelings got you in trouble. Cold indifference kept you alive in spirit and that’s just as important as being physically alive, if you ask me.
I’m the reason she’s thinking about it now because I’m the one who pointed it out. Ever since she got in my bed declaring that not only did she not want to have sex with me, she didn’t want to have sex with anyone, it’s been bugging me.
Is she afraid of men? I’m not convinced. She doesn’t need to be, not really. She can take care of herself. She took me down in the alley outside the gym and I’m no fuckin’ slouch as far as fighters go. Granted, I was surprised at her sudden attack and I would’ve beaten her easily if she hadn’t run off. But that kinda just proves my point. She knew better than to stay and fight. She knew she needed to run.
She was never in any danger. I was never gonna hurt her, but if I tried, she would’ve been OK because she could’ve gotten away. Clean away, not letting me follow her home the way she did.
So she was right and I was wrong. It’s not men she’s afraid of, it’s having feelings for them. It’s giving her heart away to someone who might not be here next week.
And then, if she did declare her love for Maart in some way, and he rejected her, well… it kind of explains a lot. “Do you still love him?”
Irina looks up at me. She wants to ask who I’m talking about, but she knows. So she doesn’t. “I can’t love him, Eason.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t—”
I put up a hand to stop her. “You can lie to yourself all ya want, but don’t lie to me. There’s no way that Maart doesn’t love you. Still, even after all these years. So why can’t you love him?”
“I was gonna say he doesn’t love me the same way.”
“Hmm.” This rings true. “Ya didn’t really answer my question, though. Do you still love him in the same way?”
She just gives me a noncommittal shrug. “If you’re asking me would I put my life on the line for him, then yes. I would. I love him in that way now.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“What do you mean?” She looks up at me again. This time she really is confused.
“That’s how he loves you, Irina. You don’t think Maart would kill for you? Would give up his life for you?”
“Why would he?”
“What do you mean?” It comes out louder than it should. It’s just… she’s so fuckin’ clueless. “He raised you from a little girl, Irina. He taught you everything he knows trying to keep you alive.”
“But he didn’t do that for me, he did that for everybody.”
“You do know that you can love more than one person, right? You do know that you can love people in different ways as well, right?”
She doesn’t say anything.
So neither do I.
But I have made a decision.
When we get back to my place she immediately starts heading for the stairs, but I grab her hand real quick before she can slip past me. She looks down at it, then up at me. “What are you doing?”
I walk over to the stairs, but unlike the way she planned it, we do this together. When I get to the bottom step, I face her and smile. “This is you.” I nod my head up the stairs. “That’s what people say at the end of a date when you get to their hotel room door, or the car ride is over, or whatever. They say, ‘This is me.’”
She smiles. All the way up to her eyes. “OK.”
“Say it.”
“This… is me.”
“Then the guy—which is me—does something romantic.”
“Oh, God. We really don’t have to, Eason. I’m serious.”
“I’m serious too. The guy”—I reach up and put my hands on her face, palms flat on each cheek—“which is me—does something romantic.” Then I lean in and touch my mouth to hers.
We’ve already kissed once, but I was just testing the waters. I wanted to see how she’d react. It was predictable. She barely moved. Held her breath. And then, when it was over, she wanted to think about it endlessly.
I pull back just a little, just enough to whisper, “When she says, ‘This is me,’ that’s the cue for the guy—which is me—to do something romantic. That’s how dates end, Irina. Good ones, anyway. Remember that.”
And then I take a step forward, erasing all space between us. And I hold her face while I kiss her properly. The way I would kiss any girl. Open mouth and with tongue. Promising something more to come.