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“I never said I didn’t believe in love. I said it always ends in tragedy.” She nodded, barely refraining from rolling her eyes.
“This one doesn’t,” she countered. “It’s a happy ending.”
“Rather unbelievable, isn’t it?”
“We’re not debating this again,” she groaned, throwing her arm out, and I laughed, shaking my head at her dramatics as I looked at the cover again.
It was mostly unassuming, just a few words stamped across a plain background. No shirtless men or women with their bodices ripped apart. As far as romances went, this one looked promising, at least.
“What’s it about?” I asked, and when she didn’t immediately answer, I looked at her again. My brows rose in a silent question, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“He’s a professor,” she mumbled. “He falls in love with his student.” My chest warmed at the words. We were a far way from falling in love; I wasn’t sure such a thing was even possible, but knowing she saw it as a possibility was promising.
“How fitting.” Her cheeks flushed the prettiest pink color at my words. Rolling my shoulders back, I clutched the book in my hand as I moved my arms behind my back, grinning at her. “I’ll see you this afternoon in class, Ms. Beckett.”
Her mirroring smile was breathtaking. “See you later, Professor Ashford.”
* * *
The book taunted me for the rest of the day. All I wanted to do was open it and read every word Winnie thought important enough to share with me. I wanted to get lost in the story. Not because I cared much about it, but because it connected me to her in the way only a book could.
After showering and eating a depressing dinner, I sank onto my bed, my legs stretched out in front of me, the book resting in my lap. The sounds of my neighbors fucking above me were loud in the silent room, a porn-inspired moan occasionally interrupting the rhythmic squeaking from their bed.
I tried to block the noises out and focus on the book. I flipped through the pages, the papery-inky smell filling my nose. Opening the cover back, my heart leapt into my throat. Winnie’s loopy handwriting greeted me, and I ran my fingertip over the letters, feeling the indent from her pen.
Love doesn’t always end in tragedy. But even if it did, it’s the person we choose to love who makes it worth it.
Yours Truly,
W
A grin tugged at the corners of my mouth as I reread what she wrote. They were words written by someone who had yet to experience love or heartbreak and saw it only through the prettiest rose color. They were pretty, naïve words, but they weren’t real.
One day, she’d learn the truth—that not every person you fell in love with was worth the story that unfolded. Sometimes, all the time, effort, and love you poured into them wouldn’t make a difference. Love was messy and painful and usually tragic. No amount of twisting and trying to force it into a perfect box would make it anything else.
But sometimes, in fleeting moments, their smile or laugh made all the bullshit fade away. The happiness you felt in that moment made it worth it. All the fighting and screaming and hate-fucking.
Then they’d say something, and it would push one of your buttons the way only they knew how to do, and you’d find yourself wondering why you ever gave them a chance in the first place.
Winnie hadn’t experienced any of that yet, and if things went my way, maybe she never would.
I turned the page and took a deep breath, settling deeper into my bed as I began reading. Hours passed by in a blur, the characters and story playing out like a movie in my head. It wasn’t a book I would’ve ever chosen for myself, but it was…perfect. It was beautiful. And yes, there were even tragic moments.
The sun crept higher, changing the sky from black to bruised purples and blues. My eyes burned and exhaustion weighed my body down, but I finished the book. I had to.
Shutting it, I rested it on my chest and stared up at the ceiling. The professor in the book took charge. He made the first move every time, and said some of the wildest things. Of course, the romance was over the top, and he made sure to express his undying love a few times, which was rather unrealistic, but…is that what she wanted? Someone to take care of her the way this character did? To tell her all the same things?
Even the sex in the book, which was surprising in itself, was enough for me to pause. Did she want that? It was gentle, and he wasn’t…me. He wasn’t anything like me. He was soft, and never called her names or said anything remotely degrading. Could I do that? For her, I could try. But the thought of boring vanilla sex made me want to blow my fucking brains out.
I’d spent the last two decades of my life having mundane, mediocre sex with Madeline, and I couldn’t keep living that life. Not even for Winnie. I couldn’t hide this side of myself away. I already tried once. I’d been desperate.
But this depravity was as much a part of who I was as my hair color or height. It was what made me, me.
Maybe I could show her this was what she wanted, too. She didn’t want what the character in that book could give her. She wanted what I could give her.
A plan slowly began to unfurl in my mind, and I moved the book aside as I grabbed my phone. All I had to do was find a book with someone like me and convince her that was what she wanted. That she wanted all the same fucked-up, depraved shit I did.
Chapter Twelve
