A dark and tragic love story, loaded onto my Kindle. . . and I was already in the middle of reading it.
Hell had written that for me.
And it melted my heart.
He'd also learned to dance, because he knew it would remind me of my father, and because apparently, according to these notes, Woodrow got stage fright. That brought a half smile to my lips, but that smile died a quick death when I realized I’d turned him downwhen he asked me onto the dance floor.
I read more, needing that thought replaced by something else he’d done for me. And I found so much. The beauty room was Woodrow's idea. He'd remembered my hopes and dreams. The white paint licked all over this house was a mutual agreement, but the pink touches were things Hell had taken in from Woodrow’s teenage diary entries. That brought another smile to my lips.
And so did everything else.
I slipped into the yard. Hell was still on the swing-set, still swinging away as I made my way to the rental car.
I wanted to walk over to him, run even. To grab his face and kiss him. To show him that I appreciated the little things about him, too, but I couldn’t. Not yet.
I needed the rest of the story, because I knew, with its dark undertones and feelings of twisted love, it was inspired by his feelings for me. The feelings the phone notes didn’t give me access to.
I popped the trunk, and the lid rose to block out the beauty of the moon filling the sky. My Kindle was there, lonely on the trunk floor. I grabbed for it and rushed inside, slamming down the trunk. I didn't wait for Hell's anger to follow me inside, and that was a good thing, or I'd have been waiting all damn night.
Because he didn’t move from his position.
I stormed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and I rushed into the bedroom. I turned on the Kindle and my eyes zoomed over the words I'd already read, freshening up the story in my mind. I read on. I read through the forced marriage and the abuse that followed. I read until evening turned to night outside my balcony doors. Until a guy in the book—a better man—came to save the leading lady from her husband, stealing her away when things got rough, and it wasn't until the time in my book declined, that my suspicions were confirmed—they were the same man.
And both versions of him loved her. Even if one of them had no idea how to show it. And as the end neared and the story greweerily familiar, I knew there'd be no happy ever after, because those she loved wouldn't be written on the last page.
This story was true. It was my life.
Tears had been bolting down my face for the last hour, and I barely dared to read the last chapter, but I pushed through . . .with regret.
More tears fell down my face, blurring the last words on the page, as they splashed down on the low-lit device.
One heart stopped beating and another broke.
And mine broke, too.
I sat and cried, emotion washing over me over the realization that I was about to lose everyone I'd ever known. The only boy I'd ever loved. Completely loved. I’d fallen harder this last day. And I knew I'd never get over us. Over him. . . them.
I flung the Kindle, with the screen now advertising its low battery, onto Woodrow's pillow, and I cried into mine.
A small voice disturbed me, along with the patting of feet against my hip. Bushy was demanding attention, and I had no energy to give him. He crawled to my face and screamed his little scream, slumping against me, his fluffy ass too close to my nose. When he didn't move, I realized I hadn't fed him, and with Woodrow not around, no one had. He was probably low on energy, too.
I scooped him into my arms and carried him down to the kitchen. He talked a lot in his little cat voice on the short journey. I placed him on the island, not even caring about his ass on the surface, and I dished out some cat-friendly food onto a small plate that he'd claimed as his own.
I pulled a pretty pink gerbera from the vase, and I left Bushy to eat in peace, his small purr acting like music as I drifted from the room.
My feet sulked into a pair of fluffy slippers from the shoe stand. They looked like cats. Like Bushy.
I walked into the yard. The swing-set still swinging, Hell still on the seat.
“Hell?”
His shoulders raised as he took astuttering breath. And I knew he was listening.
I walked to face him, and didn’t waste a second before I climbed onto his lap, my legs wrapping around his waist to secure us together.
“I read it all.”
“And?”
