The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

His eyebrows lifted. “What do you mean?”

“Is it going under your name or hers?” I stopped walking, and he turned to face me. The sunlight caught in his hair, making it shine in places.

“Both, like you said. Do you want to know the marketing budget, too?” he teased.

I shot him a glare. “Are you really willing to forsake general fiction and be shelved in the—gasp—romance section? Because the guy I met in the bookstore last month definitely wasn’t.”

He blinked, drawing back slightly.

“Hmm. Hadn’t made it past the new release table in your mind, had you?”

“Does it matter?” he countered, rubbing his hands down his stubble in obvious frustration.

“Yes. What I’m asking you to do keeps you in the section that isn’t for—” I cocked my head to the side. “What was it you said again? Sex and unrealistic expectations?”

A muttered curse slipped from his lips. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?” He turned away, looking into the trees, then muttered something that sounded like unsatisfying.

“Nope. Want to keep telling me all about that romance ending? Because that’s where they’ll shelve you if you write it. Her name overpowers yours. You might be hot shit, but you’re no Scarlett Stanton.”

“I don’t give a shit where the book gets shelved.” Our eyes locked for a tense moment.

“I don’t believe you.”

He lowered his head. “You don’t know me.”

My cheeks heated, my heart rate spiked, and more than anything, I wanted to have this argument over the phone so I could end it and stomp out the infuriating flickers of emotion Noah never failed to ignite within me.

I liked it numb. Numb was safe.

Noah was a lot of things, but safe wasn’t one of them.

I ripped my eyes away from his.

“What is that?” He leaned slightly, his eyes narrowing.

I followed his line of sight. “The gazebo.” The breeze whipped by, and I tucked my hair behind my ears as I marched past Noah, heading into the aspen grove. Space. I needed space.

The crunching footsteps behind me implied that he followed, so I kept going. About fifty feet in, dead center in the grove, was a gazebo fashioned entirely from the trunks of aspen trees. I walked up the steps, trailing my fingers lovingly over the railings, which had been sanded smooth and replaced over the years, just like the floor and roof. But the supports were the originals.

Noah came up beside me, turning slowly so he could see all of the space. It was roughly the size of our dining room but shaped in a circle. I watched him carefully, preparing myself for what would no doubt be a judgment of the rustic little space I’d favored as a kid.

“This is phenomenal.” His voice dropped as he walked to one of the railings and looked over the edge. “How long has it been here?”

“Gran built it in the forties with Grandpa Jameson’s dad and uncle. They finished it before VE day.” I leaned back against one of the trunks. “Every summer Gran would have a desk brought out so she could write here, and I’d play while she worked.” I smiled at the memory.

When he turned toward me, his expression had softened, sadness filling his eyes. “This is where she waited for him.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle and nodded. “I used to think their love was built into it. That’s why she always had it repaired, never rebuilt.”

“You don’t anymore?” He moved close enough to my side that I felt the heat of him against my shoulder.

“No. I think she built her sorrow, her longing into it. Which makes sense now that I’m older. Love doesn’t last, not like this place.” My gaze slid from trunk to trunk to trunk as a million memories played through my mind. “It’s too delicate, too fragile.”

“Then it’s infatuation, not love.” His voice lowered, and yet another flicker of emotion—longing this time—flared into a flame that centered in my chest.

“Whatever it is, it never quite measures up to the ideal, does it? We just pretend it does, lapping up the sand when we come across the mirage. But this place? It’s sturdy. Solid. The sorrow, the longing, the ache that eats you up after the missed chance…those make fine supports. Those are the emotions that last the test of time.”

I felt his stare again but still couldn’t meet it, not with all the word vomit I’d just spewed all over him.

“I’m sorry he didn’t love you the way you deserve.”

I flinched. “Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.”

“I don’t read tabloids. I know what wedding vows mean, and I’ve learned enough about you to know that you took them seriously.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I tucked my hair again before I could stop my hands, his gaze warming my skin like a physical touch.

“Did you know that our brains are biologically programmed to remember painful memories better?” he asked.

I shook my head as a shiver of cold swept over me now that we were shaded. Noah closed the inches between us, giving me his heat. The man was a furnace, if his arm was any indication.

“It’s true,” he continued. “It’s our way of protecting ourselves, to remember something painful so we don’t repeat the same mistake.”

“A defense mechanism,” I mused.

“Exactly.” He turned his head to look at me. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do whatever it was again. Just means we have to push past the pain our brains won’t let go of.”

“What do they say about the definition of insanity?” I asked, tilting my face so I could meet his eyes. “Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome?”

“It’s never the same. There are a million variations of any situation. No two people are alike. The tiniest change to any encounter could leave us with very different results. I like to think of the possibilities as a tree. Maybe you start with the one path—” He tapped the nearest trunk. “But fate throws all