Page 23 of Anton

I set my phone aside and go up to the bedroom, retrieving a notebook and pen from the nightstand. I should probably find a better hiding place for it in case my family ever discovers this little escape of mine.

Once I’m back on the sofa, I open to a blank page and begin writing. It has always soothed me, maybe because it gives the thoughts somewhere to go instead of letting them spin around in my head. Here, I don’t have to filter anything. I can say whatever I want to without anyone judging me for it.

ANTON

The inside of my car is dark except for the faint glow of my phone, my attention fixed on the live feed of Thora stretched across the sofa with a notebook resting in her lap. She studies the page before her pen begins to move, and soon she’s absorbed in whatever she’s writing, smiling to herself now and then.

Blyat. What the fuck is she writing?

The camera angle shows me the notebook in her lap, but not a single word on the page.

I need to know every thought in her head. That’s my job.

My grasp tightens on the steering wheel as she giggles, the laugh filling me with a strange sensation. A strand of hair slips over her shoulder as she tucks one leg beneath herself, her face drawn in concentration while her pen continues moving.

What are you thinking about, Thora Whitlock?

I lift a finger to the screen and trace the curve of her face before following the shape of her body.

Would she like it? Me touching her like that?

I grind my teeth, dragging myself out of the fantasy. Onscreen, she closes the notebook, rises from the sofa, and slips it into a kitchen drawer.

Tomorrow, while she’s at work playing veterinarian, I’ll be inside that house reading every word.

Her secrets belong to me now. She just doesn’t know it yet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ANTON

The next day, I’m back inside her house, and the first thing that greets me is her floral scent, already working its way into my subconscious. I stop just inside the door, close my eyes, and breathe it in like a blyatski addict.

Tearing myself away from the distraction, I cross to the drawer where she hid the notebook. The moment it’s in my grip, I open it and turn past the first page. The notebook is nearly full, and I read as quickly as I can.

She writes about her family and how, despite the love between them, she has never quite felt like she belongs. She tries to convince herself that being left out of the things they keep from her doesn’t hurt, but the truth bleeds through every line. No matter how much they care about her, she still feels like she’s on the outside looking in.

I understand that better than anyone. I’ve always been the outcast in my family too.

Flipping forward, I finally find the last entry, the one I think she wrote last night.

Dear Diary,

Yes, I know it’s ridiculous to be twenty-five and still writing in this thing, but I don’t care. It helps, and I’m not stopping anytime soon.

Ahem. Anyway…I met a guy.

I know, I know. My track record with men is not great. Honestly, I make better choices with animals, which is saying something, but hear me out.

If you met him, you’d understand. He’s cautious and definitely not the kind of man who lets people get close. The walls around him are so high that no one bothers trying to climb them, and maybe that’s why I can’t stop wondering what he’s hiding behind them.

There’s more to him than he allows anyone to see, a part of him that might still be waiting for someone brave enough to keep trying, even if he would never admit it. I want to be the one who shows him he doesn’t have to face everything alone, even though I’m almost certain he’d hate me for it.

God, this sounds insane. He’s not some wounded animal I can fix. I know that. But aren’t we all a little broken in our own way? Don’t we all need someone, even when we pretend we don’t?

Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe I just want to be someone who sees him…and doesn’t walk away.

My eyes stay glued to the page, reading the lines again and again until they start to blur. My fingers snap around the notebook, my breathing turning rough.