Lost King by Piper Lennox (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

“Sit down,” I order, halfway catching him by his elbows. It’s a good thing he’s still got some muscle power left. If he actually did fall, we’d both land ourselves some nasty concussions.

Instead, though, I sink to the floor with him and grab a dishtowel from the stove, scooting around to cover his hand.

“Hey.” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Look at me. You’re okay.”

“No, I know,” he manages, swallowing like he might get sick. I dive for an empty bowl on the counter.

No, not empty: it’s got some chopped onion in the bottom. The powerful smell would make me feel much worse, but it seems to snap Theo out of his trance. He gets himself against a cabinet and tips his head back, drawing deep breaths as he stares at the recessed lights.

“Blood still gets to you, huh?” I smile and uncover his hand. I take care to ensure only I can see the damage. “Kind of assumed you’d outgrown that, by now.”

Theo gives me a blurry stare.

“I just meant— Not like it’s a childish thing, being scared of blood. Just something you have to learn to deal with as an adult, out of necessity.”

My babbling finally ends, because his stare doesn’t ease up. Damn, where’s the Theo who can take a joke?

“How’d you know blood freaks me out?” he asks.

Oh, fuck. I didn’t offend him.

I outed myself.

Maybe I should have let the guy faint. At least then I wouldn’t have to sit here (naked as hell, let’s not forget), unfolding my own brain trying to find a good lie.

“You told me.”

Wow. Brilliant. Mail my Pulitzer Prize for Fiction via Express Mail, please.

Theo, the color coming back into his lips, wets them and shakes his head slowly. “I don’t tell anyone that. Ever. Not if they don’t witness it for themselves.”

“Well....” I wedge my hands between my knees and shrug. “You told me.”

This is true. He just has no idea the girl he told, who witnessed it for herself in this very same house seven years ago, was me.

But it still feels like a big, dirty lie. Theo didn’t tell me. He told Aria.

His eyes move incrementally over my mouth. I pretend to scratch an itch under my nose to hide it. It feels like he can see the lie dripping across my lips.

“You were drunk,” I add with another shrug. Another lie, wrapped in the packaging of truth via technicalities.

“Huh.” Theo stares at me a little longer before blinking hard and reorienting himself.

I make him stay seated while I grab the First Aid kit from upstairs. I call down to him for instructions on where to find it, which feels like yet another lie. It’s already in my hands.

While I dab peroxide on the cut, he shuts his eyes again and breathes heavily.

I know I should leave things where they are: he bought my short, sweet explanation, and all is well. But my curiosity can’t help itself.

“How did you become scared of blood, by the way?” I pretend I’m too busy cleaning his finger to look up. “You didn’t...you know, go into details, but I was wondering if anything specific started it. And is it all blood, or just your own?”

“All blood,” he says softy, “and no, nothing specific. Though I’d feel a lot less embarrassed about it if I could point to a domino effect.” Once the bandage is on, he removes the dishtowel and looks at his finger. “An old-fashioned traumatic experience would validate this bullshit nicely.”

“It’s perfectly valid on its own.” I help him stand. “We don’t owe people explanations for our fears.”

With a defeated flourish, he drops the bread knife into the sink. “Do you have any?”

“What, fears? Of course.”

“I meant unexplainable ones.” He turns, hands braced on the counter behind himself. Chill bumps pepper his skin.

I want so badly to touch him, but I’m worried he’ll magically know I just twisted the truth into something wholly unrecognizable, right before his eyes.

There’s an unexplainable fear, right there, I think.

“Typical stuff, I guess.” I go back to the living room and start dressing; he follows, doing the same. I’m glad. Being naked while we do anything other than sex feels too...couple-y.

And that doesn’t freak me out, which is what freaks me out the most.

“Losing my teeth for no reason,” I list, stepping into my jeans, “driving off a bridge when I’m perfectly in control of the car...oh”—I snap my fingers and point at him—“and that a chair I’m sitting in will just, like, suddenly break.”

Theo laughs. The sound sends relief coursing through me. Finally, things feel back to normal. “Why?”

Because I used to be fat, I think. Because that actually happened to me once, when I was waiting at the bank for my mother to finish begging for another extension on a business loan she couldn’t pay that month.

It was an old chair, the manager assured me. The legs were cheap. If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been someone else.

I nodded along to all his logic, letting the staff help me back up and promising them I wasn’t injured. This didn’t include my self-esteem, now splintered worse than the legs on that fucking chair.

As I ignored the stares of the other customers, I replayed the manager’s excuses. He was right; he had to be. I was overweight, sure, but nowhere near heavy enough to break a chair. It was just bad luck.

The logic didn’t help, though. Even losing that weight didn’t help. I’ve been secretly terrified of a repeat, ever since.

“You said an unexplainable fear,” I tell Theo. “Therefore, I don’t have to