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)
Eason grabs the phone and smiles. I didn’t text that. I texted, ‘No, he’s a good guy.’
“Anyway,” I say. “What are the chances I can walk on this foot now?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“I want to take a shower.”
He gets out of bed and comes around to my side. “Come on, I’ll help you into the bathroom.”
I’m pretty confident I can do this on my own, but when I step on the foot, a sick pain slides up my leg and I quickly realize that’s not the case.
Eason picks me up and takes me into the bathroom, setting me down on a long polished concrete countertop. “Bath?”
I look over at the bathtub. It’s a free-standing one positioned right in front of the window with a view of the sea where it meets the sky. There isn’t a single cloud. Nothing but sunshine.
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just starts the water and then turns to look at me. His face is filled with mischief and I definitely get the impression that he’s thinking about taking my clothes off.
I like him. I don’t think he’s just some default choice. I think we’re already friends and we’re gonna stay that way. Weeks. Months. Maybe forever. And after the way he took care of my foot last night, I can definitely see the boyfriend lurking behind those tattoos.
But I’m not ready for anything else. Not yet.
He grabs a towel from the cupboard and places it on the counter next to me, then takes my foot in his hand, braces my toes against his bare stomach, and begins unwrapping the gauze.
When he’s got it all unwound he throws the bandage in the trash and holds my foot up, studying his work. “I think it’s good.”
It is good. His stitching is straight and neat and the skin is not too red at the edges, so it’s not infected.
“Clean it gently with soap and then I’ll wrap it back up when you’re done.” We both pause here, saying nothing. It gets awkward pretty quick. “Do you need help getting in?”
I probably do, but… not from him. So I just shake my head, feeling kinda dumb and childish again.
“It’s OK, Irina.”
I’m not sure what he thinks my problem is, but I nod anyway.
He gives me one last smile and then leaves me alone in the bathroom.
I sit there on the counter for a few moments, just listening to the tub fill up with water and gazing out at the ocean.
When I was a kid I used to sit out on the Rock and look out at the ocean as I was eating my rice and chicken. And I would imagine all the worlds that were out there that I had never seen except in picture books in Cintia’s library.
I don’t remember feeling sad about that.
I don’t remember feeling anything about that. Just… maybe… curious, I guess. That the world could be so big that I would never be able to see it all.
But I suddenly find that I do have feelings about the world beyond me. Always have. It’s just I couldn’t pin it down until now.
And it’s fear. It’s just plain fear.
I’m afraid of everything. And I get that it doesn’t make much sense—that’s why I couldn’t figure it out. Look at me. I’m here, alone, and I’ve done all these things. And it’s good. I’m fine. I survived.
But I keep life at a distance. I’m living it. I’m playing through to the end, but I never let anything get too close, do I? I don’t want to be invested in things, or people, or places if it’s all gonna disappear like a losing child on fight day.
Does it have to be this way though?
Couldn’t I, for once, just… love it? And not worry about the future?
I get down off the counter, careful to only put weight on the toes of my wounded foot, and then I strip naked in front of that window, thinking about the Rock, and Maart, and how I can feel him getting closer.
He’s coming. I already know he’s coming. And when he gets here, I’m going to burst into tears the moment we lock eyes. Not because I miss him, though I do. And not because I was stupid, though I was.
It’s because he knows me. He sees through me.
He has always known that I was afraid and me choosing him was the real default choice.
Not Eason.
It was Maart.
And he was wise enough to understand that.
That’s why he made me walk away.
When I get out of the tub I wrap myself up in the towel and go out into Eason’s bedroom. He brought my backpack down from upstairs, but there’s a bag on the bed too, a fancy bag from the boutique downstairs. It’s pink, and glossy, and the handles are made out of pale-green satin ribbons.