Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“I can’t believe you have a girlfriend.” I flip onto my belly and bury my face in my pillow.
“A girl-something.” He kisses the sole of my foot, tucking it under my blanket when I’m all massaged out and cramp-free. “Only because you told me I never stood a chance and I had to lose my virginity somehow.”
“You could’ve just hooked up with her once or twice.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Guess I’m not the type to screw around.”
“You always had a chance,” I whimper. “I was just…confused.”
“We’re not dead yet, Bails.” He kisses the back of my head, sliding the blanket up my body. “And I’m not done trying to make you mine.”
I don’t know why it hurts so freaking much to know he gave Thalia his virginity.
Especially considering I handed my own V-card to a guy who didn’t even deserve my Sam’s Club membership. A guy who saw me struggling with my performance and injuries and chose to exploit it.
“Well, now you know you have a chance.” I sulkily give him my back.
“No, now you know you have a chance.” He stands up. “If you get clean. Night, Dove.”
“Night, Big Traitor.”
He chuckles as he presses his pillowy lips against my forehead. Lev’s forehead kisses are the best. He flicks the light off, hovering over the threshold to my room.
“Levy?”
“Yes?”
“You know what I love the most about doves?”
Pause. “Yes?” I can hear the smile in his voice.
My eyes flutter shut. “They’re like human hearts. No matter how lost they get, they can always find their way back home.”
CHAPTER 10
Lev
Age seventeen
Miserable fact #9,492: Left-handed people die three years earlier than right-handed people.
It’s a week before Bailey goes to Juilliard, and I’d be shitting bricks if I had any appetite.
The term now or never has never been more accurate because if she turns me down now, it will never happen between us.
She’ll go off to her fancy dance school and meet fancy dancers and they’ll all have fancy acrobatic sex, and now I want to break the legs of hypothetical faceless people with little derby hats. Awesome.
I honk in front of Bailey’s house, which is also in front of my house, which is also in front of Uncle Trent’s house. He’s outside with his son, Racer, throwing the ball.
“Hey, Lev, you got legs?” Trent asks from his front lawn, tossing a football to Racer, who catches it effortlessly.
I sling an arm over my window. “Not the kind you’re into. Why?”
“Use ’em and go knock on Bailey’s door next time.” He pauses, giving me direct eye contact. “And don’t put yourself down, kiddo. Your legs are fantastic.”
A chuckle bubbles in my chest. “Dude, you changed my diapers.”
“Not in the last sixteen years.” He deliberately winks at me, and I think my soul just detonated.
“Scarred for life.” I pretend to gag.
Trent grins, tossing the football back to Racer. “Don’t doubt it. Your dad is Dean Cole. You never stood a chance.”
“Hi, Uncle Trent!” Bailey darts outside her door, waving at him.
“Hey, Bails.”
She hops into the passenger seat and plasters a lip-glossed kiss on my cheek.
“Levy! I made us a slushie. Probably messed it up, but I know green grapes are your favorite, so I gave it a shot.” She passes me a foam cup. I just stare at her.
I wish she’d stop making my favorite slushies, my favorite cookies, my favorite everything. I appreciate her taking care of me, but I don’t like how she treats me like I’m her kid.
How am I going to move on if she rejects me? But I already know the answer: I won’t.
I’ll be a hermit. I’ll die alone. With, like, twelve dogs to keep me company. I’m not a cat person. They’re actual certified selfish assholes. Science says so.
Man, picking up dog shit twelve times multiplied by three times a day means thirty-six times. That’s a ton of crap. The future stinks if she isn’t into me.
No pressure, though.
To make shit even more awkward, ever since The Night We Don’t Talk About, she’s been pretty off me. Not cold, per se, but definitely keeping her distance.
Like she’s practicing how to not be friends anymore. Part of it is my fault for what happened, but I never thought my being shitty to her one night would result in a total breakdown of #Bailev.
I take the slushie wordlessly.
“Is everything all right?” She rubs my shoulder, an encouraging smile on her face.
She’s wearing a pair of denim cutoffs and a tiny white Earth Liberation Front: You Can’t Control What’s Wild shirt that shows off her tan abs.
It occurs to me that if she ever gets married to someone who isn’t me, I might go to prison for first-degree murder. At least California doesn’t have the death penalty. Fuck, I hate needles.
We drive to our place in the woods. Neither of us talks. We haven’t talked since The Night We Don’t Talk About, and not for my lack of trying. Bailey completely gave up on us as friends, and instead she just treats me like I’m her flower project or some shit.