Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
I tap his nose. “Exactly.”
“I’m a fool,” he says, then smacks his forehead. “I can’t believe I missed something so obvious.”
“Or maybe the magic worked,” I say.
He flashes me a warm smile, holding my gaze meaningfully. “It did.”
My heart speeds even faster, and I’m not sure we’re talking about stage magic anymore.
Banks swings his gaze around and reaches for my hand, clasping our fingers together as we walk through the quad. As we’re leaving it, we pass a bench in the corner, set away from others. I stop, my chest squeezing with painful memories. Banks has opened up to me, so it’s fair I do the same. But it’s not just about fairness. There’s something else, something new—an insistent need to let him in. I haven’t felt like this before with a man, and I don’t know what to make of these new emotions. Still, I forge ahead into the unknown.
“That’s why I don’t like having my picture taken,” I say, pointing toward the seat.
He tilts his head. “The bench? What happened?”
We sit, and I begin the story that I haven’t shared with any other man. “There was one day in our sophomore year, a few weeks after our parents died, when Haven was having a really rough time. It was after school, and she was crying.” I pat the wood of the bench, feeling like it was just yesterday. “We sat here, and I hugged her as she cried. A girl we both knew—Katrina, she’s a friend and she runs The Sweet Spot now—was working for the yearbook and was going around doing slice-of-life pics, and she snapped a bunch of pictures of students doing their thing at the end of the school day. I don’t think she fully realized what was going on till the next day in yearbook class.”
Heavy-hearted, I remember that photo. A portrait of grief. My baby sister sobbing in my arms. Me, holding her tight. Us, clinging to each other as our life capsized.
I push past the hurt and finish the story that the town knows, my friends know, my grandma knows. But I haven’t told anyone else. I’ve never shared this with a soul who wasn’t there at the time. “But the pictures were up on the computer and that one was there. As soon as she realized it, she deleted it. But people had seen it. Even so, she and the teacher and the other students all said, We shouldn’t run that one. They were so lovely. They knew it was private. They knew Katrina hadn’t meant to take it. And she felt terrible, but in the end, she’d actually protected us.” My eyes well with tears.
“Sweetheart,” Banks, says softly, then tugs me close, wraps his arms around me, and shields me. No one’s here. No one can see us, and yet he knows without me saying it that I don’t want anyone to see me cry.
I nestle against his chest as a few rebel tears stream down my cheeks till I wipe them away. I feel lighter. I feel like I let go of something I was holding on to for too long. Something that maybe has held me back.
Deep breath. Then I pull back. He runs a hand down my hair. “I get it. I do.”
“Why I don’t love having my picture taken without knowing it’s happening?” I ask in a broken voice.
“Yes, but also, why you love it here. You all look out for each other.”
“We do,” I say.
I set my head on his shoulder. We sit quietly for a while, and it’s nice not to say a word but still feel so connected.
Later, we visit The Sweet Spot, and I buy banana bread from Katrina, who’s dolled up again today. As she hands me the bread, her smile grows bigger with hope. “Would you take some cookies to Chris?”
“I’m not sure I’ll see him,” I admit.
“Or maybe the whole crew,” she says, then reaches under the counter and thrusts a white box of a dozen cookies at me.
Banks takes it before I can, saying a heartfelt, “Thank you.”
I don’t think he’s thanking her for the baked goods.
We leave the shop and continue our ride. When we reach Prohibition Spirit, I stop and point it out to Banks. “I love that place. I go there with Chloe and Bridget, and Haven when she’s in town. That’s the place that my ex wants,” I say, nodding to the expanded section with the for-lease sign in the window. “For a restaurant.”
Banks growls. “He won’t get it.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll stop him,” he says.
I’m not sure he can, but I love that he wants to. His possessiveness makes my chest flip. “How would you do that?” I ask.
It feels a little like foreplay, this question.
His eyes travel up and down me, heating me up. “However I need to do it, Ripley.”