Sometimes, he looks at me, and I think he feels the same. Especially when he’s inside me. But it could just be wishful thinking on my part. And I’m too afraid to ask in case the answer I get isn’t the one I want to hear.
It’s kind of like, you know, in the movies when someone’s tied to a guillotine and their head is under the blade and the rope that’s holding it up, stopping it from falling, is slowly fraying. And the person who’s there to save you is caught up, fighting the bad guy, and you’re just lying there, praying the rope doesn’t reach the last strand and the blade doesn’t drop.
Well, I’m the person on the guillotine. The fraying rope holding the blade is my time here. And West … well, he’s either the villain or the hero of the story, depending on how things go.
I do know that I will at some point have to leave America. I’m not actually sure how long I can legally stay in the country without having to go home. I guess that’s something I need to find out.
The thought of leaving West makes me want to throw up, so I try not to think about it too much. Meaning I worry about it every single day.
But today is not that day because I’ve finished my book and it’s party time!
I push my chair back and go into the bedroom, where West is watching a game tape.
He’s lying there on the bed, shirtless, wearing just a pair of shorts. The remote is in his hand, resting on his chest.
Gorgeous. I have to hold back a sigh of appreciation.
“Hey,” I say.
He hits pause on the remote and looks at me. “Hey yourself.”
“So, I have news.” I’m almost bouncing on my toes with excitement to tell him. “I finished my book.”
He sits up. “You did? That’s amazing!”
He opens his arms up for a hug, which obviously, I’m all in for. I practically jump into his lap.
“You wrote that book quick. I mean, that is quick, right?”
I ease back a little, so I can look at him. “Yeah. Really quick. It just poured out of me. I mean, I knew the bones of the story.” I indicate my finger between him and me. “So, that helped immensely, and I had a lot of free time to write that I didn’t used to have before. So, yeah, it’s done. This is just the first draft, and it needs to be edited and stuff.” I pause and bite my lip. “But I was wondering if you wanted to read it. I know you said before that you’d want to read it, and I would totally love it if you did. But you don’t have to. No pressure at all.”
“Dillon.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to read it.”
I smile, and I know it’s goofy as fuck. I probably have hearts in my eyes right now. “I know you’re busy at the moment, so whenever is fine.”
“I want to read it now.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He smiles, and my insides melt like ice cream in the sun.
It’s official. I love this man.
Oh, of course you do, you fucking idiot. You’ve been in love with him for ages.
The fact that you can’t tell him how you feel and that you have zero bloody clue how he feels about you is the problem.
“Okay. Let me grab your laptop.” I climb off the bed. “You can read it straight from the laptop if you want. Unless you’d prefer me to print it out, which I can do.”
“Laptop is fine.”
“Cool. Well, I’ll just go get it.”
I practically skip out of the room and over to the dining table to get his laptop. I don’t skip back for the obvious reason—that knowing me, I’d probably fall and break his laptop.
He’s still sitting where I left him when I come back to the bedroom.
I hand over his laptop. “It’s right there on the screen. Actually, it’s at the end, so you’ll need to go to the beginning.” I lean around the laptop and scroll the document to the top. “There, it’s ready.”
Then, I just stand there, next to him.
“Are you gonna stay and watch me read or …”
“Christ! No! I’ll go make coffee or something. Then, I’ll watch some TV. You want any coffee?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Cool.” I start to back away toward the door. “So, I’ll just be out there, keeping busy.”
“Okay.”
“Want me to close the door?”
“Sure.”
I shut the bedroom door behind me and slap my hand to my forehead, wishing I weren’t such a moron. Then, I walk into the kitchen to make myself some coffee.
thirty
Dillon
I’m curled up on the sofa, just finishing my second cup of coffee, when I hear the bedroom door click open.
Shit. That was fast. I quickly glance at the clock. It’s not even been an hour yet. Forty minutes at the most.
Oh God, he hates it, doesn’t he? I mean, it’s not been long, so he couldn’t have read that much—unless he’s a speed-reader. Even then, there’s no way he could have finished a seventy-thousand-word book in that time. But then he doesn’t have to read the whole book to hate it. Just the first part. Or maybe he’s just taking a break, and I need to stop freaking out.
I sit up straight, put my coffee cup down, and smile at him. “Hey. All okay?”
He stays near the doorway, and I notice that he’s wearing a shirt now.
Oh, maybe he has to go out somewhere, and that’s why he stopped reading. Okay, I can relax now.
“You going out somewhere?” I ask him.
“No.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I read the ending, Dillon.”
“Oh, um, okay.” I laugh, but it sounds awkward to my own ears because I now have this off feeling in the pit of my stomach.
His voice sounded as stale as yesterday’s bread, and the only time he calls me Dillon is when he’s inside of me or annoyed with me. And he’s definitely not inside me at the moment.
“So … did you hate it? Because it’s fine if you did. I’m not sensitive. At all.” I’m totally sensitive when it comes to my work, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Is that how you see this going?” He points at me and then himself. “Me declaring my undying love for you and proposing? Us getting married and having some fucking happily ever after?”
“What?” That off feeling in my stomach turns into worry. I push up from the sofa, getting to my feet. “No, of course not.”
“You sure about that?” His expression is closed off. His jaw tight. He looks … resigned.
And that tightens the strings of worry inside me.
“Of course I’m sure. Just because I wrote the ending of the story that way doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a story.”
“About us.”
“Loosely based on us.”
“I read the beginning before I skipped to the ending. Everything about it—how we met, et cetera—is exactly as it was.”
“You knew I was going to do that! But I can’t finish the story with a sad ending. People won’t want to read that. But writing it isn’t a reflection of what I’m hoping for.” But it is. If I’m really honest, it’s all I want.