Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 506(@200wpm)___ 405(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Whatever choice words Elle continues to spew get lost in the raucous noise of the party as I shove my way through the thick crowd in order to reach Sydney. Who knows, maybe she’ll surprise me and help me out of this sticky situation.
Then again, maybe pigs will fly out of my ass.
Statistically speaking, the chances of swine taking flight are astronomically higher.
Chapter Seven
Sydney
It’s Saturday night and I’m more than ready to cut loose. I need a drink to help shake off the heaviness of visiting my brother’s grave. It’s like this every time. It’ll take a couple of days to tamp down all of the sadness and grief attempting to break loose beneath the surface. There would probably be less emotional upheaval if I didn’t visit quite so often. But how can I do that?
The guilt alone would eat me alive. And part of me likes sitting against the smooth surface of his headstone. Sharing my life makes me feel closer to him. For a few minutes, I can pretend that he’s not really gone. I keep waiting for the pain of his loss to fade, but it’s been four years and that has yet to occur. I’m beginning to doubt it ever will. I think the grief is something I’ll carry around with me forever.
So, yeah...I need a drink. Pronto. Maybe a couple of them to take the edge off and help me forget.
Arm in arm, Demi and I stroll up the sidewalk to the football house. As much as I don’t want to be here, my bestie told Rowan that we would make an appearance at some point in the evening. She also assured me that we wouldn’t have to stay long. I plan on holding her to that.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket for the umpteenth time today. Irritation swiftly bubbles up inside me as I grit my teeth, not bothering to pull out the cell and glance at the screen. There’s no need to. I already know who it is.
Brayden Kendricks has been blowing up my phone for the last two days.
What the hell is that guy’s problem?
Does he think we’re suddenly friends and he can talk to me whenever he likes?
No, thanks.
Since he refuses to comprehend what my silence implies, it looks like we’ll need to have a discussion as to what it means when someone ignores your advances. Although, that won’t be happening tonight. I have zero interest in dealing with him at the moment. Not when I’m already feeling emotionally raw.
He tried to catch me at class the other day, but I slipped out of the room a few minutes early so I could meet up with my advisor to discuss my credit situation. All she did was reconfirm that if I scrap the accounting degree and get out of business all together, it’ll end up tacking on an additional year of classes. There is no way I want to stick around Western for that long. For all intents and purposes, I’m stuck. I keep reassuring myself that it won’t be as bad as I think. I’m actually a whiz at crunching numbers. The question is—how much will I enjoy doing it forty hours a week?
It’s yet another problem to wash away with a massive glass of alcohol. Just like when it comes to dulling my grief, it’ll be a temporary measure. A flimsy Band-Aid until I can work through everything in my head.
When my phone buzzes thirty seconds later, Demi asks, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
Not a chance in hell.
“Nope.” I have zero intentions of responding to Brayden’s texts or calls. This is exactly why I was reluctant to give him my digits in the first place. If he thinks he can wear me down and we’ll hook up, he couldn’t be more wrong.
“What if it’s important?”
“It’s not.”
With a curious expression marring her brow, she shrugs and drops the subject.
It’s oh so tempting to block his ass. The thought brings a smile to my face. That would serve him right for making such a nuisance of himself. Maybe some girls—all right, most girls—clamor for his attention, but I’m not one of them. Not after what happened freshman year. As soon as that thought pops into my head, I shove it away. It’s just another thing I refuse to dwell on.
After climbing five steps onto a rickety front porch, we wait to be admitted inside. The freshman football player who is supposed to be manning the door is making out hot and heavy with a girl. His tongue is shoved so far down her throat that I’m pretty sure he’s touching her tonsils.
I clear my throat, hoping they’ll splinter apart, but that doesn’t occur. If anything, the sucking action becomes more voracious. I’m almost impressed with his hoovering skills. But also slightly repulsed. It’s doubtful there’s a drop of spit in that girl’s mouth.