I don’t have a comeback. So instead, I open the book again.
Because it’s easier to lose myself in someone else's storm than admit I’m standing in the middle of my own.
8
Lorenzo
The first timeshe read to me, I didn’t expect to give a damn. The idea that she would even want to spend time with me was so foreign that my brain could barely process the words coming out of her mouth.
I just watched her . . .
Completely enthralled. The whole moment felt loaded.
A turning point I had no hope of controlling.
Her voice, her words, they crawled under my skin, and days later, they’re still there, whispering things I don’t want to hear.
Because Victoria Danforth read them to me.
Because she put her voice to this famous tragedy and somehow made it feel like a prophecy. But underneath all of it, despite how much I want to listen, I can’t help but wonder...
Did she pick that book on purpose?
Is there a deeper meaning to why she reads it to me daily? Or am I just imagining things when it’s only a coincidence?
Other than the fact she’s rich and I’m not, we have nothing to do with these characters. Not one damn thing.
If she picks upGatsbynext, then yeah . . .I might start spiraling.
But for now, I tell myself it’s just time spent with her. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Today, we’re in our usual spot. Her spot, technically. This is her domain, after all.
The boathouse is too warm and humid. Sunlight streaks through the glass roof in thick rays.
She walks in like she owns the place, which is fitting because she does. The book is tucked under her arm, and her hair is pulled back. Where most people would look like a mess, she looks perfect, as always.
Man, you have it bad.
She sits next to me on the bench that’s seen better days, crossing her legs at the ankle like she’s posing for a portrait somewhere fancier than this boathouse that’s falling apart.
Her floral fragrance floats toward me, subtle yet mouthwatering.
I want to dip my head down and inhale her, drag the scent into my lungs. I don’t, because that would be insane. Just because the girl reads to you doesn’t mean she wants more.
I’m pretending to work on a leaf blower for the gardener. Its guts are in my lap, wires exposed, screws scattered, but I’m not fixing shit.
She cracks the spine of that damn book with delicate, confident fingers and begins to read.
Never one to enjoy being read to, it’s weird how much I love it when she does it.
She reads with emotion I can barely comprehend. Like she’s fully immersed in the plot, as the story flows through herbloodstream. Each word leaves her lips, and the passion behind it hits me like a punch to the sternum.
She reads like she’s trying to impress me. Not like she’s showing off, but like the words belong to her, and I sit here silent, pretending the blower is important while she dismantles me with every sentence.
When the words become too real, too pointed, too much like confessions disguised as literature, I hop up from the bench and move to the door.
I tighten bolts . . .every bolt. Then the hinge. Then the other hinge.
