Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“And I kept thinking, why? I kept thinking, how can I convince you to see it? To see that even though what you dreamed for yourself didn’t pan out, doesn’t mean that what you have now is any less worthy, is any less joyful. It doesn’t mean that you can’t want new things, that you can’t build a new life, a life that you have made for yourself despite everything. That’s what you always tell people, don’t you? That you should make your own life. So I kept wondering why. Why won’t you do the same for yourself? Why won’t you dream new dreams? And the reason is that you’re afraid. You’re afraid to dream.”
At this I can’t stop it.
I can’t stop the tear that rolls down my cheek despite everything.
Despite telling myself to be strong and aloof and distant like he usually is.
At the sight of my tears, his flinch is even bigger and he takes a step toward me but I step back.
I don’t want him to touch me.
I don’t want him to touch me ever.
And I’m glad that he doesn’t push. That he can see it on my face, my determination.
So he stands there, his chest moving up and down in waves, his fists clenched, his eyes studying me so closely, so minutely.
So torturously.
“You’re afraid to wish for things,” I say, when I’ve finally managed to get that lump of emotion down my throat. “Because if you don’t, then you won’t have to go through the pain if they don’t come true. If you don’t dream then you won’t have to go through the pain if those dreams break. Because you went through it once. Years and years ago. You went through the pain back when you were a teenager. You wanted to go pro. You wanted to get out of this town. You wanted a rich beautiful girl. You shot for the stars and fell short. You told me that. And it hurt. It hurt so badly that you shut yourself out. You closed all your doors. You stopped focusing on yourself and made others the center of your world. Because it’s easier that way. It’s easier to be angry and alone and to stand still because if you walk, you could stumble. You could fall. You could get hurt. And you don’t want to.”
And then I pause because I don’t know if I should say it.
I don’t know if I should let him in on this secret.
A secret that I’ve only now discovered.
But I’m done with this.
I’m done with him. I’ll tell him and I’ll leave him to ponder over it. And I’ll go back to my dorm and I’ll do what I’ve been doing all evening, ever since the get-together ended: cry and sob for my stupid love story.
For this stupid man that I can’t stop loving.
Taking a hiccupping breath, I continue, “It’s easier, isn’t it, Conrad, to end things with a girl than to actually admit that you’ve fallen in love with her.”
I thought it would make him flinch again. It’s the biggest blow I’ve dealt him yet.
The blow I specifically came to his house to deal him.
But it doesn’t.
My words don’t make him flinch.
They only make him stare at me, my tears that are still falling, with more agony, more torment.
“You love me,” I continue, hoping to finish soon so I can leave. “Don’t you? Not her. Me. I’m your d-dream girl. You told me that. That I could be someone’s dream girl and you meant yourself. That night at my dad’s party before… she came. Maybe you loved her in the beginning, when things s-started between us, but you love me now. You love me and —”
I stop talking because I think he’s reached his limit.
I think he’s done all he can to hold himself still and away from me, because he comes for me then.
He comes for my waist that he puts his hands on, gripping the flesh tightly, so tightly and gloriously, and pulling me off the ground. He plasters my front to his and with me wrapped around him — because my thighs and my arms can’t help but wind themselves around his heated and familiar body, despite the fact that touching him wasn’t my plan — he walks a few steps and settles me against his truck.
He grabs my tear-streaked face with both his hands and rasps, “Stop crying, Bronwyn. Please. Just stop crying, baby.”
“D-don’t call me that.”
Pressing his hands on my cheeks, he leans closer and I squeeze my thighs around his hips, feeling his weight, his heat, his body that I haven’t felt in weeks.
That I never thought I’d feel again in this lifetime.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me, looking me in the eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
I push at his shoulders. “No, you don’t get to say sorry to me anymore. You don’t get to… I loved you and you lied. You –”