Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
My fingers stroke over his busted knuckles, tears streaming down my cheeks and slipping into my mouth, down my chin and onto the collar of my dress. “I’m sorry. It should’ve been me.”
“Violet!” He whirls me around so fast that I almost fall until he grabs my shoulders with both hands. “Don’t you fucking say that.”
“But it’s because of me that he’s…he’s…” I choke on my words, my mouth flooding with saliva and pain.
“Then you better live for him.” His eyes bore into mine, his voice growing steady and resolute. “I know you’re thinking you’ve cursed both Mario and Preston, so you believe the world would be a better place without you.”
“How…”
“You’re obvious. It’s why Dahlia and I have been keeping an eye on you in case you do something stupid.” He shakes my shoulders. “I’m telling you, Violet. Your death wouldn’t bring back Preston or Mario. It’ll only make their sacrifices die in vain. Do you hear me? Live for them if you can’t live for yourself. You owe them that much.”
A new wave of tears stream down my face, clinging to the sunglasses.
“Live for me,” he whispers, his head tilting down, and when his lips capture mine, all I can do is kiss him through the tears.
35
JUDE
Icouldn’t say goodbye.
Not when everyone else was.
Not even when Kane spoke about Preston, fighting emotions that were ripped out of us at a young age to tell the audience, that only came for the Armstrong name, how amazing Preston was.
How he was more than just Preston Armstrong.
How, despite his selfish speech and the grandiose way he talked about himself, he was actually the most selfless person on earth.
Only Kane and I knew the true Preston, but only one of us got up there and spoke about him as if he were listening. I was just trying not to punch everyone in sight.
All the fucking people—his parents, grandparents, and uncle, who seemed more interested in striking deals and turning his funeral into a show of wealth and extravagance.
The only reason I didn’t act on my thoughts was because Violet held my hand through the whole thing, not complaining or wincing whenever I tightened my grip. She even stroked the back of it with her thumb as if she could feel I was spiraling.
Despite my stone-cold face and lack of emotions, Violet could tell that I wasn’t all right.
That I won’t be for a long time.
I don’t know what state I’d be in if she hadn’t been by my side these past couple of days. Even when she was sleeping, the fact that she was there, breathing softly against my face while I held her hand, was enough.
Her hand in mine earlier was enough.
But I sent her with Kane and Dahlia. She hesitated to leave me, but she finally agreed when I told her I needed to be alone.
Now, after everyone has evacuated the cemetery, I’m on my own, staring at the soil that’s damp with drizzle.
To say goodbye.
I don’t want to say goodbye.
The cemetery feels too quiet now that everyone’s gone.
The mourners left in sleek black cars, the sound of their hushed voices swallowed by the hum of expensive engines and crunching gravel. The Vipers team was the last to go. Some of the guys shed tears as they spoke after Kane about how Preston was the life of the team.
But they’ll all forget about him soon enough.
He’s just returned to dust, as the priest said, praying for forgiveness from a God Pres never believed in. A God who’d fucked him over since he was a kid, then took his life too soon. As a last fuck-you of sorts.
Now that the whole charade is over, it’s just me, Preston’s grave, and the light, steady rain soaking into the earth like the sky itself is grieving.
The gray clouds hang low and swollen, pressing against the horizon, stretching over the rows of headstones like a heavy, unbroken shroud.
I release a long, fractured exhale as the wind moves through the towering oaks, rustling the dead leaves that cling stubbornly to the branches. Every so often, a gust sends them spiraling down, landing in damp piles that reek of decay.
I shove my hands into my pockets, and my fingers curl into fists. Cold seeps into my skin, settling deep in my bones, but that’s nothing compared to the hollow space inside me. The one Preston used to fill with his sharp tongue and that smirk that made me want to either punch him or laugh along.
I stare down at the headstone.
It’s polished, expensive, a witness of the Armstrong wealth carved into stone. The inscription ‘Preston Armstrong’ is neat but impersonal. Pretty sure Lawrence approved it without a second thought as if it were a business deal. It doesn’t say anything about who he really was, what he really meant.