Read Online This Girl: A Novel by Colleen Hoover - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Colleen Hoover
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Will?”
Without breaking our gaze, I look straight into her eyes from up on the stage and reply, “Death.”
The emcee exits the stage and I take a deep breath, preparing to say the words that will either make or break the possibility of a future with her.
Death. The only thing inevitable in life.
People don’t like to talk about death because
it makes them sad.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them,
all the people they love will briefly grieve
but continue to breathe.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them ,
Their children will still grow
Get married
Get old . . .
They don’t want to imagine how life will continue to go on without them,
Their material things will be sold
Their medical files stamped “closed”
Their name becoming a memory to everyone they know.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them, so instead of accepting it head- on , they avoid the subject altogether ,
hoping and praying it will somehow . . .
pass them by.
Forget about them,
moving on to the next one in line.
No, they didn’t want to imagine how life would continue to go on . . .
without them.
But death
didn’t
forget.
Instead they were met head-on by death,
disguised as an eighteen-wheeler
behind a cloud of fog.
No.
Death didn’t forget about them .
If they only had been prepared , accepted the inevitable , laid out their plans , understood that it wasn’t just their lives at hand.
I may have legally been considered an adult at the age of nineteen, but I still felt very much
all
of just nineteen.
Unprepared
and overwhelmed
to suddenly have the entire life of a seven-year-old
In my realm.
Death. The only thing inevitable in life .
I TAKE A step away from the microphone, feeling even more nervous than when I began. I completely laid it all out there. My whole life, condensed into a one-minute poem.
When I step off the stage and make my way to our booth, she’s wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, so I walk slowly in order to give her a moment to absorb my words.
When I slide into the booth she looks sad, so I smile at her and try to break the tension. “I warned you,” I say as I reach for my drink. She doesn’t respond, so I’m not sure what to say at this point. I become uncomfortable, thinking maybe this wasn’t the best way to go about telling her my life story. I guess I sort of put her on the spot, too. I certainly hope she doesn’t feel like she has to tell me how sorry she feels for me. I hate pity more than anything.
Just when I start to regret my choice in performance, she reaches out and takes my free hand in hers. She touches me so gently—it’s like she’s telling me what she’s thinking without even speaking. I set my drink down on the table and turn to face her. When I look into her eyes, it’s not pity I see at all.
She’s still looking at me with hope in her eyes.
This girl just became privy to everything I’ve been scared to tell her about my life. The death of my parents, the anger I held toward them, the amount of responsibility I now face, the fact that I’m all Caulder has—and she’s still looking at me with hope in her tear-filled eyes. I reach to her face and wipe away a tear, then lightly trace my thumb across the wet trail running down her cheek. She places her hand on top of mine and slowly pulls it to her mouth. She presses her lips into the center of my palm without breaking her gaze from mine, causing my heart to catch in my throat. She just somehow managed to convey every single thought and emotion she’s feeling through this one simple gesture.
I suddenly don’t care where we are or who might be watching us. I have to kiss her. I have to.
I take her face in my hands and lean in closer, ignoring the part of my conscience that is screaming for me to wait. She closes her eyes, inviting me in. I hesitate, but as soon as I feel her
Without breaking our gaze, I look straight into her eyes from up on the stage and reply, “Death.”
The emcee exits the stage and I take a deep breath, preparing to say the words that will either make or break the possibility of a future with her.
Death. The only thing inevitable in life.
People don’t like to talk about death because
it makes them sad.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them,
all the people they love will briefly grieve
but continue to breathe.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them ,
Their children will still grow
Get married
Get old . . .
They don’t want to imagine how life will continue to go on without them,
Their material things will be sold
Their medical files stamped “closed”
Their name becoming a memory to everyone they know.
They don’t want to imagine how life will go on without them, so instead of accepting it head- on , they avoid the subject altogether ,
hoping and praying it will somehow . . .
pass them by.
Forget about them,
moving on to the next one in line.
No, they didn’t want to imagine how life would continue to go on . . .
without them.
But death
didn’t
forget.
Instead they were met head-on by death,
disguised as an eighteen-wheeler
behind a cloud of fog.
No.
Death didn’t forget about them .
If they only had been prepared , accepted the inevitable , laid out their plans , understood that it wasn’t just their lives at hand.
I may have legally been considered an adult at the age of nineteen, but I still felt very much
all
of just nineteen.
Unprepared
and overwhelmed
to suddenly have the entire life of a seven-year-old
In my realm.
Death. The only thing inevitable in life .
I TAKE A step away from the microphone, feeling even more nervous than when I began. I completely laid it all out there. My whole life, condensed into a one-minute poem.
When I step off the stage and make my way to our booth, she’s wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, so I walk slowly in order to give her a moment to absorb my words.
When I slide into the booth she looks sad, so I smile at her and try to break the tension. “I warned you,” I say as I reach for my drink. She doesn’t respond, so I’m not sure what to say at this point. I become uncomfortable, thinking maybe this wasn’t the best way to go about telling her my life story. I guess I sort of put her on the spot, too. I certainly hope she doesn’t feel like she has to tell me how sorry she feels for me. I hate pity more than anything.
Just when I start to regret my choice in performance, she reaches out and takes my free hand in hers. She touches me so gently—it’s like she’s telling me what she’s thinking without even speaking. I set my drink down on the table and turn to face her. When I look into her eyes, it’s not pity I see at all.
She’s still looking at me with hope in her eyes.
This girl just became privy to everything I’ve been scared to tell her about my life. The death of my parents, the anger I held toward them, the amount of responsibility I now face, the fact that I’m all Caulder has—and she’s still looking at me with hope in her tear-filled eyes. I reach to her face and wipe away a tear, then lightly trace my thumb across the wet trail running down her cheek. She places her hand on top of mine and slowly pulls it to her mouth. She presses her lips into the center of my palm without breaking her gaze from mine, causing my heart to catch in my throat. She just somehow managed to convey every single thought and emotion she’s feeling through this one simple gesture.
I suddenly don’t care where we are or who might be watching us. I have to kiss her. I have to.
I take her face in my hands and lean in closer, ignoring the part of my conscience that is screaming for me to wait. She closes her eyes, inviting me in. I hesitate, but as soon as I feel her
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