Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
And there’s that smirk again.
I swallow, and my breath comes out in a gasping burst because I can’t imagine where this conversation is going, and it’s making me tense as fuck.
Plus, CJ called me little bro, and I loved it way too much, and I’m worried he’ll never call me that again.
So I cautiously ask, “What’s better than free donuts?” and try to brace myself for anything and everything.
“My brother is awake and waiting for you,” CJ says, grinning now.
My heart stops.
It just stops.
And look at that: CJ was right.
I fly out of my chair so fast, and this is so much better than free donuts and every other snack food ever invented, and also, “I can’t believe you just sat there with this information and waited to tell me!” I shout over my shoulder as I sprint through the waiting room. “Are you insane!”
“You’re welcome for fixing your hair!” he shouts back, and the bastard is laughing.
“Thank you so much!”
I trip over someone’s outstretched legs and nearly eat it on the dirty linoleum, but I manage to catch myself by grabbing for the security guard perched by the entrance doors and pushing off when we collide.
He mumbles something to me about slowing down and firmly repeats himself when I speed up instead, but my big bro is a cop and could flatten this guy like a pancake so I don’t need to listen, do I?
“Hey!” the security guard yells, and is he chasing me now?
Oh, shit.
“I’m so sorry, but my boyfriend is awake!” I holler before turning the corner and disappearing into the stairwell.
I take the stairs two and three at a time until I reach level three where the post-critical care unit is, then I slam into the door and shove it open and burst out onto the floor.
I take off down the hall and I’ve never run so fast in my life, and is wheezing a sign of asthma? Because I think I might have it.
“Jake!”
I hack and cough when I reach his door, my breath gasping and rattling inside my chest, and the nob is slippery in my sweaty palm as I try to turn it, and does everything have to be so dramatic for me?
“I’m coming!” I shout, gripping and twisting the knob and then wrenching the door open. I rush inside.
I see Jake.
I freeze at the foot of the bed.
Every time I’ve been in this room, I’ve cried my weight in tears.
I’ve imagined the worst possible things, and I let myself imagine them over and over while I sat next to his bed, one of those things being never seeing Jake look at me again, and the thought broke me, every time I imagined it. Because no one has ever looked at me the way Jake looks at me.
Moms don’t count.
It’s that I’m so happy you exist look.
I’m sure you know it. Most people do.
And when someone looks at you like they’re grateful you’re alive and they’re lucky to even know you, it’s the best feeling in the world.
I’ve looked at a lot of people like that. And some I meant, but others I didn’t. I just wanted to get that look in return.
I would’ve taken it from anyone, and for years, I never got it.
I’ve lived so long without anyone giving a shit or caring about me, and I’m sure I could live longer without it, but I don’t want to.
I want to matter to someone every day forever.
And I want that someone to be Jake.
“Damn. Your hair looks great,” he says, and his voice cracks me wide open.
My face warms from ear to ear, and Jake stares at my blush like he’s actually missed it.
“I’ve missed you too,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck yes.”
“So, get your cute ass over here before I try getting up.”
I swallow and gasp in a breath, and then I round the bed and climb on the edge and bury my face in his warm neck and cry, my hand gripping the front of his stupid hospital gown.
He smells like antiseptic and sweat and the stale hospital air but fuck it. I’m never moving.
Jake’s arm that isn’t stuck with an IV wraps around me, and his hand pushes underneath the hoodie and rubs the bare skin on my back.
“Want to touch you,” he murmurs, his thumb caressing me.
“I can’t really hold you,” I whine. “I’m too scared I’ll pull something out.”
“As long as it’s not the tube shoved up my dick, who gives a fuck.”
I chuckle and lean away just enough to peer into his face that’s thinner than it should be and pale just like mine.
I kiss his dry lips and he moans, the hand on my back flexing.
Then I press my forehead against his, and say, “You scared me.”
Jake sighs, looking down between us, and whispers, “I know. I’m sorry.”