We read quietly for an hour or so, though I spend more time than I’d like to admit looking up from my book to check on her. It’s not my fault if she’s more interesting thana mystery where everyone is so rich and insufferable that I don’t give a shit about them.
Reading for fun is new to me this year. It was Shay’s idea—something we could do together but separately. Every month, she tells me what to read, and once a month, we meet up to discuss the book. Usually, she comes here or meets me in Jackson—Wintermore is still hard for me since it makes me think of Georgie so much—but it guarantees we see each other at least once a month. So far, we haven’t liked a single book we’ve read. She’s been taking recommendations from Noelle’s brother, Felix, so I’m starting to think he’s the problem.
I’ve never been as engrossed in a book as Este is. When she nods off, her Kindle is still clasped in her hand, precariously close to falling off the couch. I reach for it and carefully extract it from her hand. Maybe I should ask her for some recommendations. I glance at the screen to get an idea of what she’s reading and nearly drop the Kindle.
“You’re going to take my cock, and you’re going to like it, baby. I get to use you however I want, remember?”
“Yes, sir.”
What the fuck?
I click around, trying to figure out what the hell she’s reading. I’m not sure how I end up at the start of the book.His to Take by C.S. Jack.The cover has a woman on all fours with her ankles tied together.
Probably not something I’m going to recommend to my sister, then.
But I find myself reading the first few sentences. Then the first few pages, the first few chapters.
And I find myself picturing everything that’s happening in the book, but not with the main characters. Does Este picture herself when she reads these kinds of things, too? I know I should stop—both reading and thinking of her—but I don’t put Este’s Kindle down until I think I’ve reached the spot she was reading when she fell asleep. And I don’t stop imagining her for a single page.
I turn off the Kindle, picking up my iPad instead and downloading the app so I can buy the book and keep reading. The book is the fourth in a series. They all look equally sexy, featuring shit like BDSM, free use, taboo relationships, and a bunch of kinks I haven’t even heard of.
Is she into this stuff, or does she just like reading about it?
It’s not something I have a right to know, but as I open the book on my iPad and pick up where I left off on her Kindle, it’s all I can think about.
7
ESTE
“Do you think I’m boring?”
Rebecca, my therapist, tilts her head, frowning at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Sloane said post-crash Este is boring.”
“Ah. Sounds like something Sloane would say.” Unlike my dads, Sloane has come along to a couple of my therapy sessions. Rebecca says healing is about more than just the person at the center of whatever happened, so she likes to be a space for conversations between loved ones, too. I imagine it works, but Sloane isn’t the person who needs help talking about what happened.
I started therapy via video call a couple of weeks after the crash while I was still stuck in bed. It’s required for Skylark staff involved in any kind of on-the-job trauma to do a minimum of eight weeks of therapy with a qualified psychologist and get signed off before they can start working again. Rebecca declared me fit to fly after twelve weeks, but I didn’t feel ready to stop therapy, and she agreed. I also don’t feel ready to fly, but she won’t tell me what she thinks of that.
“I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume you’ve been less exciting lately, considering you’ve experienced a major trauma, Este. That doesn’t mean you’re boring, though.”
“That was a very diplomatic answer,” I muse, and Rebecca laughs.
“That’s my job. Besides, it’s not important what I think. Doyouthink you’re boring?”
I think back over the past few months. What have I done? Mostly, shut myself away with my Kindle. It’s not like I was going out and partying much before the crash, but the nature of my job meant I went to a lot of new places. I liked to go out and try out local restaurants and cafés, visit museums, and see shows. And yes, I still spent a lot of time glued to my Kindle, but even when I was at home in my apartment in Chicago, I never spent a whole day in bed reading like I do now. I would take my Kindle to coffee shops—I even bought a fancy handmade purse specifically for Kindles—or I’d stay home and make my living room cozy with candles, put a fireplace on my flatscreen, and open the windows so I could get fresh air.
Obviously, I’m not going to get to see the world if I refuse to get on a plane, but I have become a little too acquainted with my bedroom ceiling. And not even for fun reasons.
It’s not like reading is all I did. Randall and I went on dates, and, though he had no personality, he knew how to plan a decent night out. I went to bars with Sloane, who’s had a fake ID and a knack for finding bars that don’t look too closely since she was nineteen, and I have friends fromwork I’d meet up with whenever they passed through Chicago.
Since the crash, not so much. I don’t even go to the grocery store anymore. I only leave the house to go to my favorite coffee shop nearby, for doctor’s appointments, and dinner at my dad’s house, because if I didn’t, they’d worry about me.
“I think I might have gotten a little boring,” I admit. “I’m twenty-six. I shouldn’t be spending all my time shut away.”
“It’s understandable that you’d want to stay somewhere that feels safe after going through something awful. But no, you can’t do it forever. I don’t think it would be a bad thing for you to do something a little more fun.”
“You got the part where I mentioned being snowed in on a mountain for at least a month, right?”
