Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Me: Sam
Charles: The guy who humiliated you in college?
Me: Yep. That’s the one.
Charles: Annnddddd?
Me: And what? We said hi, he drove me home because it was raining or else I would have had to walk through the woods and that’s it.
A few seconds pass by and Charles sends a voice message. “Remind me what happened again.”
I sigh thinking about it, refusing to let something that happened all those years ago embarrass me still…but it does. “They basically pulled a Vivienne from Legally Blonde on me and told me that a party was a costume party when it wasn’t. I showed up dressed like a pirate—and not the sexy kind—and everyone laughed and took pictures, and one of the photos ended up on the front page of the university newspaper. The sorority got in trouble for it and lost their credibility, so the rest of my senior year, the girls had it out for me, blaming me for their charter or chapter or whatever getting shut down.”
“Fuck,” Charles says back. “That’s fucking shitty—hang on, my trainer is coming back.”
Me: Go workout and stay in tip-top vampire shape. I’m going to try to finish another chapter before dinner with my dad. And yes, I gave you a sword fighting scene that’s really fucking cool, if I do say so myself.
Charles sends back a heart emoji, and I try to focus on writing again, but my mind goes back to that day in college. Sam wasn’t the one who lied to me, who purposely tried to embarrass me, but he was on-and-off dating Heather Hunt, the head bitch in charge at the sorority. I was under the impression they were off, and Sam had asked me to go to the party with him.
I thought it was a date…a real date. Our first date.
Heather was jealous of my close relationship with Sam, as well as raging that my short story won in a contest and hers didn’t even get an honorable mention. She was majoring in English and thought it was bullshit a sociology major was even allowed to enter the contest, let alone win.
The fake costume party was an elaborate setup, and she got a lot of people in on it. If Sam was with Heather the night before like she claimed, then he had to have known, and that’s what hurt the most. He’d moved on to med school by then and wasn’t at Michigan State anymore, and arrived that weekend just to party with us. The contest was supposed to be judged on historical accuracy, so I went all out with my pirate costume and even got fake teeth to wear since mine were white and perfectly straight, thanks to wearing braces in middle school.
Unlike Elle Woods, I didn’t stay at the party, acting like it didn’t bother me. If I’d shown up like a sexy bunny, maybe I would have. But I ran out in tears, blinded from all the cameras flashing. The last thing I remember was looking right at Sam, who was already drunk. He just stood there, the shock obvious on his face, while Heather threw her arm around him, cackling as she took photos.
That was the last time we saw each other. He called me nonstop, and emailed me three days after that, but Farisha deleted the email saying I didn’t need to hear any bullshit apology. He didn’t do anything, which she said was just as bad as being in on it. He didn’t defend me. Didn’t run out after me. And from what I heard, he kept dating Heather after that.
It was the ultimate betrayal and would have hurt even if I hadn’t been secretly in love with Sam since childhood. Once a playboy, always a playboy, and I doubt he’s changed.
So as far as I’m concerned, Sam Harris can go fuck himself.
“No phones at the table.”
I flick my eyes from my phone to Dad, smiling. “Sorry. I’ve been waiting for an email from my editor all day, and she just emailed me back.”
“What did she say?” Wendy asks.
“She likes the chapter and outline I sent.” I trade my phone for a glass of sangria, which Wendy made herself and is really good. Wendy asks me about the writing process, which she’s asked about a dozen times before, but I have to give her props. She wants to be involved and wants me to know she cares, but also doesn’t want me to think she’s hoping to replace my mom. If I was younger, that could have been a concern, but it’s not now. Especially since ghost-Mom told me to push them together. She loves Dad even beyond the grave and wants him to be happy.
“This is good,” I tell Wendy, scooping up another bite of homemade macaroni and cheese. “I could eat my weight in cheese, you know.”