Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 155405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 777(@200wpm)___ 622(@250wpm)___ 518(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 777(@200wpm)___ 622(@250wpm)___ 518(@300wpm)
I sigh, standing at the foot of the stairs and watching Anae dismiss us like her hired help as she makes her way out to my pool like she’s on vacation.
“I do not enjoy her,” I tell Hannah as the sliding door closes behind Anae.
Hannah shakes her head. “Nope. But it’s easier to just do what she wants. I’ll go chill some drink glasses.”
“I made lemonade,” I volunteer.
“Sugar-free?”
I shake my head no.
Hannah nods, her mind clearly on her next task. “We should take out bottles of water, too.”
___
Anae sucks all the energy out of me while she’s over, so there’s none left to deal with Landon when he comes home.
I head upstairs as soon as I hear his car pull in.
Mom’s at work, so I text her and ask if she could stop by my favorite deli and grab me a turkey sandwich for dinner. I tell her I have a lot of homework and club stuff to do so I don’t really want to take time to have an actual dinner.
I really do have homework, so I kneel on the floor by my backpack and start unloading books. In the middle of prioritizing which subject to start working on first, I realize the card with Javi’s number isn’t in my statistics folder where I left it. Panic floods my veins and I start ripping through my bag.
Oh my god, where is it?
I took the card with me to school because I was afraid of Landon finding it if I left it in my room. He’s not even supposed to be in my room, but he does a lot of shit he’s not supposed to do.
I didn’t take it out, right? I know it was in this backpack, I remember looking at it fondly before one of my classes started. Oh my god, what if it fell out at school?
Oh my god, if Landon finds that card…
Just before I completely melt down, my finger touches glossy cardstock. I pull out the card, and my shoulders slump with relief when I turn it over to see Javi’s writing on the back.
I place my hand and the card over my chest and breathe a sigh of relief, then I set it aside and get out the rest of my books.
By the time I lay out my books and notes on the desk and I’m still thinking about the card, I realize I don’t feel entirely safe having it around. I don’t want to get rid of it just in case this thing with Javi really turns into something. For sentimental reasons, I may want to have the card he first gave me his number on.
But I can’t have it out where someone could see it, either.
Setting the card down on the desk, I open the drawer and carefully draw out my jewelry box. I open the bottom drawer to make sure Hannah’s stuff is still safely tucked away, and when I see it is, I decide to add Javi’s card to it.
But, just in case I get up the nerve to text him, I better save it in my phone first.
My hands are clammy and a bit shaky as I create a new contact and type in Javi’s name. I type in his number, then double check against the card that I put it in right.
Once I confirm I did, I slide the card in the bottom drawer alone with Hannah’s stuff, then I put the jewelry box back in its regular spot.
But now that his number is actually saved in my phone, it feels like a deliberate choice not to use it.
Maybe I should send him a quick text just to say hi and triple check I saved the number correctly. Yeah, that’s a good reason. Accuracy. I love accuracy.
My stomach is an absolute wreck as I try to think what to type. I’ve talked to guys on social media messengers and stuff, but I’ve never actually texted with a guy I had romantic interest in.
“This is so stupid,” I mutter to myself. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Just say hello.”
My fingers protest by not working, but I force myself to compose a simple first text message.
“Hey! Just wanted to say hi so you had my number, too.” I add a quick smiley face, then backspace, then re-add the smiley face because I’m being ridiculous.
I press send quickly before I can change my mind.
Then I feel like I have a whole vat of acid in my stomach as I stare at the screen, waiting for a response.
He’s probably working. Or hanging out with friends. Or… doing literally anything, but there’s no reason to expect he’ll answer right—
He’s typing.
I stare, wide-eyed, at the three gray bubbles dancing on the bottom of my phone screen.
“It’s about time,” he texts back with a winky emoji.