Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Yep.
Funny. I googled that last one you sent, and it never came up anywhere. The internet is a pretty amazing tool. Wanna tell me who wrote it?
He doesn’t respond for several moments, so I open a bag of Doritos and chomp down on a few. I’m grinning around my munches, imagining SA squirming. I can’t help but think about Knox, holding his phone somewhere, typing. Maybe he’s at home. Maybe he’s in his car and had to pull over because he can’t stop thinking about me.
I scrunch up my face. I wish.
I was too embarrassed to admit I wrote them.
Oh, it’s getting good now.
Yeah, the jock who writes poetry. For me, I assume? I send.
YOU.
They’re pretty nice.
I scroll up, read the poem again and type, So you’ve never been in love? You said it dies.
My parents didn’t even want to be in the same room as each other. He loved her one day and she loved him, then they both changed.
SA is a bit of a pessimist.
Another text comes in. I care for my brother. He’s all I care about. Who have you been in love with?
I sit up straighter in bed. Knox cares for his brother.
Ava, tell me—who have you loved?
Gah, we’re getting personal, and part of me can’t resist it. It’s a place to pretend we might just have something special, and I want to trust SA; I do. His poetry is revealing…
I loved a boy once. He moved to Texas for college.
Do you still see him? Email him? Text him?
SA is poking a little hard.
Another text comes in. Never mind. I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to think about you with him. Then, What was his name?
I laugh out loud.
Luka.
Luka with his shaggy brown hair and cigarette burns on his arms. We started off as friends, but nights were lonely at the group home and soon we were sneaking into each other’s room, talking about our hopes and dreams. I loved his crooked smile and shy glances. I don’t know that our emotions were the kind of love that’s forever, but he was my friend, and I trusted him. We fumbled through sex, and while it was never the way I’ve read about in books, it was enough.
My eyes widen at the next text.
I only want you.
My fingers clutch the phone as I type out a response.
Is that what this is then? A way to woo the girl you can’t have?
No response.
WHY did you leave that letter if you aren’t going to tell me who you really are?
A hard, rapid series of knocks sounds on my door, making me yelp. It’s past eight and visiting hours ended a while ago. In fact, the hallway’s been eerily quiet tonight, an almost expectant air in the stillness. I frown and type.
Hey, someone’s at my door. Weird, right, this late?
He doesn’t reply right away, and I feel antsy about the knock. I set my phone down and look at my black booty shorts and camisole—not exactly how I want to greet someone.
“Who’s there?” I call out, but all I get is a whole lot of silence.
I look through the peephole, but no one’s there. Anxiety drifts over me, giving me goose bumps. I’ve been more cautious since the hit at school, especially since no one knows who it was. According to Trask, there aren’t any cameras in that part of the gym. Of course not.
I bend down to my hands and knees to see if I can see feet or a shadow, but it’s only the bright white lights of the hallway. I consider calling the resident assistant but quickly dismiss the idea. It’s just a knock, right? I could text Wyatt, but he said earlier he was headed out to grab dinner with some guys from the baseball team. I think he’d come up to my floor if I asked, even though visiting hours are over.
Still…
There’s no one there. Someone probably just knocked on the wrong door, realized it, and moved on. Maybe it was for Camilla.
Yet, I can’t stop myself from pacing the floor, feeling that anxious pit in my stomach expand. I stop in front of the door and soon it’s not just a door; it’s the woods at night.
Another knock then “Ava!” The voice is male and low and instantly recognizable.
I fling the door open, relief washing over me.
“Knox! What are you doing here?”
My eyes run over him. He’s still in football practice clothes, his hair damp and pushed back off his face. I swallow at his roped forearms and tanned skin, the sculpted muscles beneath his pants.
I cock my hip against the doorframe.
“Got done with practice, was just around the corner. Thought I’d come over and check on you, see how your head is. Plus, you might need me.”
Need him?
“Someone knocked on my door a few minutes ago—it wasn’t you?”