AllFreeNovel
Share Us
But he wasn’t there in the ghostly house that, with the lack of his presence, felt like the set of a horror movie. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d do if something happened to him while I was under. What if I couldn’t get to him in time?
What if death strikes him like it did Grandpa?
So I hurried here first thing this morning. I had to see him for myself and make sure the stupid machines are beeping. That he’s alive and didn’t leave me.
They moved him out of the ICU because he can breathe on his own and the swelling has nearly disappeared. However, they need to keep a close eye on him, so he’s now in a private wing of the hospital, where he has a special nurse, a special room, and everything. But nothing is special enough to heal the bruises on his face or breathe life back into his unmoving body.
I fall to my knees beside the bed and hold his hand. It’s scraped and appears lifeless like the rest of him.
When I try to speak, a crushing wave of emotions clog my throat, making the words strangled, closed off. “Dad…you always say to tell you everything because you’re my best friend, right? You’re the only friend I trust enough to pour my heart out to without worrying that I’ll be used down the line. The only friend who won’t judge me, even if I’m a little weird and have a strange phobia of words and people and I can be empty sometimes. I feel that way again, Dad. Empty. And unlike the other times, I can’t find a silver lining. It’s just off and wrong and many other negative words. I thought about it last night like you tell me to whenever I’m stuck. You said I should take a deep breath and think about the root of the issue, because once that’s solved, everything else will be as well.
“I think I found it, Dad. The source. It’s agreeing to marry Nate. I’m not supposed to do that, right? Even if it means protecting your legacy and what you left me. I’m not supposed to latch onto him like a pest. I don’t want to be a burden, Dad. I don’t want Nate to baby me or treat me like a delicate flower just because I’m your daughter.”
I lick my lips, tasting the saltiness that seeps into my mouth. “So please wake up. If you do, I won’t have to feel shitty because I’m using him. I won’t have to force his hand and make him do something he dislikes. I did that before and he reacted badly to it. I don’t think you noticed it, but he was avoiding me, plastering me to the background as if I never existed. And that hurts, but it’s okay because I’m over him now. Ithink. So please open your eyes and come back. Please don’t let me be a burden, Dad.”
I drop my head to his hand as if that will make him move or acknowledge me. As if that will hasten the process of bringing him back.
Because what I said? Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it for five days, letting it fester inside me until it’s killed all the good words and left only negative ones. Like the red list that I have trouble with.
I’m torn between a sense of duty and common sense—that includes not being a pain in the ass.
“Who said you’re a burden?”
My head whips up fast. So fast that I’m a bit disoriented and a sudden sound slips from my lips. It’s small, but it’s there, like a squeal.
It’s him.
My dad’s best friend and my future husband.
The man I had a hopeless crush on for years before I destroyed it all on my birthday and then got over him because my pride is a thing.
I’m definitely over him.
And yet, I can’t help noticing the way his muscular chest stretches the jacket of his suit or how his eyes darken with each second he watches me. I can’t stop myself from looking at that damn stubborn jaw of his and the way it’s currently tightening until a muscle tics. Or the way his long legs eat up the distance between us in no time, injecting some sort of a thrilling potion into my bloodstream with each powerful stride.
When he stops beside me, I have to crane my neck to stare up at him because he’s so big. Big and strong and a god.
And I don’t want to miss a second of witnessing it firsthand. That’s why religion exists, right? Because a god is so dazzling, he automatically gains followers and prayers and sacrifices.
Lots of sacrifices.
“Get up.”
I want to close my eyes and memorize that voice, the deep tenor of it, the slight humming in it. All of it. But something stops me—the continuous ticking in his jaw. He’s mad about something.
Or maybe it’s somethings. Plural. Because he’s glaring at me with those darkened eyes that almost look black right now.
“I said, get up from the floor, Gwyneth.” This time, he doesn’t wait for me to comply and grabs me by the elbow, hauling me to my feet.
I let out a small sound again, a gasp mixed with that stupid juvenile squeal. But that’s not important right now. His skin on mine is. His hot skin and his large, veiny hand that’s fit for a god.
The place where he’s touching me burns and then tingles in rapid succession, and no amount of deep breathing drives it away. Maybetouchingshould be on the negative list, too, because I totally need to desensitize myself to it.
Or maybe just limit it to touching Nate.
He tilts his head to the side, watching me in that harsh, critical way that befits a criminal. Am I one now because I chose the wrong god?
“Did you hear what I said?”
