Read Online Every Last Word by Tamara Ireland Stone - Free Book Online Page A

tucked down in my bed with a flashlight, writing horrible poetry into the early morning hours, waking up feeling drained but
euphoric at the same time. I’ve been thinking about those poems all day. I couldn’t wait to get home to write again.
    When I look up, I find Caroline staring at me.
    “What?” I ask.
    A cautious smile spreads across her lips. “Let me hear one.”
    I look at her like I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m pretty sure I do. “One what?” I can hear the anxiety in my own voice.
    “A poem.”
    How does she know I’ve been writing poetry?
    “Read me something from the blue notebook.”
    My head snaps up and my jaw drops.
    How does she know about the colors?
    She points over at my nightstand, and I twist in place, my eyes following the invisible line that leads from her fingertip to the stack of three notebooks—red, yellow, and blue—piled
underneath the lamp.
    “You’re writing, aren’t you?” she asks.
    I don’t answer her directly, but I don’t have to. She can probably tell she’s right by the panicked look on my face. I can’t read my poetry to her. I can’t read it
to anyone. Shrink-Sue told me I didn’t have to share anything I wrote in those books. I wouldn’t have written it if I thought otherwise.
    “Is it really dark?” she continues. “It’s okay if it is. My stuff can get pretty dark, too.”
    “No, it’s not dark; it’s…stupid.”
    “My stuff can get pretty stupid, too. I won’t make fun of you, I promise.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Read me your favorite. Don’t think about it, just go. Read.”
    I laugh. “You’re telling me to
not
think. All I do is think. All the time. I think so much, I’m on medication and I see a shrink every Wednesday. I can’t
not
think, Caroline.”
    “Sam.”
    “What?”
    “Go.”
    I have the perfect one in mind. It’s short. I can read it without throwing up. Besides, I kind of like it. And I don’t even need my blue notebook because these words have been stuck
in my head all day, during my ridiculous facial and in the car after we left the spa and during lunch. They joined the mantras. They kept the destructive thoughts from invading.
    I sit up again. My hands are shaking, so I tuck them under my legs as I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and say, “It’s called ‘The Drop.’”
    Standing on the platform.
    Sun sinking into my skin.
    This water will cover me like a blanket.
    And I’ll be safe again.
    She doesn’t laugh, but the room is completely silent. I open my eyes and look at her, waiting for a reaction.
    She hated it.
    “We have to get you back downstairs,” Caroline finally says, and I can hear the sincerity in her voice, can see it in her face.
    She liked it.
    I stare at her, wondering if she’s too good to be true. Where did she come from? Why is she being so nice to me?
    “That’ll never happen,” I tell her plainly. “That ‘keymaster’ guy hates me. He won’t even look at me.”
    I picture him on that stool and his song starts playing in my head. I think about the words and where they live on that wall. If I could get back downstairs, I could find his lyrics. I’ll
commit them to memory next time.
    “That’s just AJ,” she says, giving a dismissive shake of her head. “And he doesn’t hate you. But you hurt him, and he doesn’t know how to handle
that.”
    “What?” My thoughts stop cold. “
Hurt
him? What are you talking about?”
    She looks right at me but doesn’t say a word.
    “Caroline. How did I hurt him? I don’t even
know
him.”
    “Yes, you do.”
    I remember how he stood in front of me, blocking my way into Poet’s Corner the other day. He looked familiar, but I’ve never known anyone named AJ, and he’s cute enough,
especially with that dimple and that adorable guitar-playing thing of his, that I would have remembered him if we’d met before.
    “Are you going to tell me?”
    She shakes her head. “You’ll figure it out.”
    I stare at her in