Read Online This Girl: A Novel by Colleen Hoover - Free Book Online

life
    The joy of a friend and the grief of a friend
    To hold and be held
    And be quiet
    So, pray
    Write a postcard
    Call your parents and forgive them and then thank them
    Turn off the TV
    Create art as best as you can
    Share as much as possible, especially money
    Tell someone about a very long poem you once heard
    And how afterward it brought you to them
    SHE WIPES ANOTHER tear from her eye when the performer steps away from the microphone. She begins clapping with the rest of the crowd, completely engrossed in the atmosphere. When she finally relaxes against me again, I take her hand in mine. We’ve been here close to two hours now and I’m sure she’s tired, based on the week she’s had. Besides, I never stay for all of the performances, since I have work on Fridays.
    I begin to stand up to lead her out of the booth when the emcee makes one last appeal for performers. She turns to me and I can see her thoughts written clearly across her face.
    “Will, you can’t bring me here and not perform. Please do one? Please, please, please?”
    I had no intention of doing a poem tonight. At all. But oh, my God—that look in her eyes. She’s really going to make me do this, I can already tell. There’s no way I can say no to those eyes. I lean my head against the back of the booth and laugh. “You’re killing me, Lake. Like I said, I don’t really have anything new.”
    “Do something old then,” she suggests. “Or do all these people make you nervous?”
    She has no idea how often I perform and how natural it feels to me now. It’s almost as natural as breathing. I haven’t been nervous about taking the stage since the first time I took it five years ago.
    Until now, anyway.
    I lean in closer and look her directly in the eyes. “Not all of them. Just one of them.”
    Our faces are so incredibly close right now; it would be so easy to do it. Just a couple more inches and I could taste her. Her smile fades and she bites her bottom lip as her gaze slowly drops to my mouth again. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she wants me to kiss her just as much. The unfamiliar nerves that have occupied my stomach have now multiplied and I’m quickly losing my self-control. As soon as I start to lean in, she clasps her hands under her chin and resumes her plea.
    “Don’t make me beg.”
    For a moment, I had forgotten she even asked me to perform. I pull back and laugh. “You already are.”
    She doesn’t pull her hands away from her chin and she’s looking up at me with the most adorable expression. An expression I already know I’ll never be able to say no to. “All right, all right,” I say, easily giving in. “But I’m warning you, you asked.”
    I pull my wallet out of my pocket and take the money out, holding it up in the air. “I’m in!”
    When the emcee recognizes me, I slide out of the booth and begin making my way to the stage. I’m not prepared for this at all. Why did I not think she would ask me to perform? I should have written something new. I’ll just do my “go-to” piece about teaching. It’s easy enough. Besides, I don’t even think I’ve discussed my profession with her; this might be a fun way to do it.
    I reach the stage and adjust the microphone, then look out over the audience. When we lock eyes, she perches her elbows on the table and rests her chin in her hands. She waves her flirty wave at me as her smile spreads across her face. The way she looks at me sends a pang of guilt straight to my heart. She’s looking at me right now in the same way that I’ve been looking at her.
    With hope.
    It hits me with that look that I shouldn’t waste this opportunity on a poem about my profession. This is my opportunity to put it all out there . . . to use my performance as a way to let her know who I really am. If her feelings for me are half what mine already are for her, then she deserves to know what she may be getting herself into.
    “What’s the name of your piece tonight,