Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Leaning back in his chair again, he pushes his plate aside to buy himself time to consider. “Why do any of us get together? We’re all looking in other people for something missing in us.”
I fall quiet, mulling over his response. It reminds me of that song about how love is trying to stitch ourselves back together with our ancient other halves, and every dysfunctional relationship is just us trying to force together two pieces that don’t fit. Which is kind of true and also cereal box philosophy.
“What’s she got that’s filling that hole?” I ask slowly.
“Yvonne is uncomplicated. Independent. Low maintenance. It’s that stability, I suppose, I’m attracted to.” He pauses for a moment. “Although she’s younger than I usually go for.”
“She’s twenty-two, no? And you’re, what, twenty-four?”
He nods. “I tend to date older women.”
“How much older?”
“Quite a bit older,” he admits. “Mid to late thirties, typically. They’re self-sufficient. Fully formed. Aren’t tilting at this whim and that.”
“Sounds more like a matter of effort than some romantic idea of your other half.”
“Perhaps.” Nate reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “The women I’m with don’t have any expectations of me, Yvonne included. I appreciate that.”
This might be the most unfiltered admission about himself I’ve managed to wrangle out of Nate since I met him. A rare glimpse under the skin of someone who’s usually so enigmatic. He’s not deceptive, exactly. More like vaguely elusive. It’s both attractive and frustrating.
“You don’t like her,” he muses, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.
“That’s not true at all. Honestly, I hardly know her. She’s nice to me when I’m around. She seems outspoken. Witty. But I can’t exactly call her a friend yet. Anyway, regardless of my feelings for her, I still respect the line in the sand,” I say in a frank tone. “You’re dating her. That makes you hers. I respect that, and I don’t want to be dragged into a situation I don’t belong in. So with that said, there can’t be any more ‘organic moments’ between us. What happened at the cemetery was wrong, and I’d like to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Nate’s face reverts to its default position: unreadable.
I wait for him to concur, to throw in his two cents, but all he does is offer a brisk nod.
“We’re in agreement then.” I stick out my hand across the table. “This is a strictly platonic situationship. Purely academic. You’re practically my intern.”
Finally, he cracks a smile. “Friends,” he echoes, shaking my hand.
A thought occurs to me as we’re standing to leave, making me falter.
“Do me a favor, would you, friend? Don’t mention the Jack thing to anyone. It isn’t worth upsetting the whole house over. Things will get complicated.”
“My lips are sealed.”
At the exit, it’s Nate’s turn to hesitate.
“So, ah, this friendship thing. Are friends allowed to text each other?”
My traitorous heart flips like it’s competing for gold in Olympics gymnastics.
“Depends what,” I answer.
“Hello, how are ya? How’s uni? Tell me about your research. You know. Purely academic,” he mimics, biting his lip like he’s fighting a grin.
“Yeah…I guess that’s okay.” I bite my lip too, but for other reasons. “As long as we operate under my dad’s golden rule: don’t text anything you wouldn’t want to see screenshotted and on the front page of the papers.”
“That’s a good rule.”
Our gazes lock, and it takes some effort on my part to break the eye contact. I hastily reach for the door handle.
Nate beats me to it, holding the door open for me. “All right then, Abbey. I’ll text you.”
23
I’VE NEVER LIKED SHOPPING. MOSTLY BECAUSE I DESPISE TRYING on clothes. There’s the violence of nonsensical sizing practices of fashion brands, but also this hygiene video we watched in sixth grade about body fluids, bacteria, and black lights that left me shaking in a cold sweat at my desk. To this day, I can’t go into a changing room and squeeze my ass into a pair of jeans without thinking about every ass that’s come before mine.
I am one hundred percent that chick in the restroom shooting people dirty looks in the mirror when they don’t wash their hands.
Which is why I’ve put off the question of what to wear to the ball for weeks before finally mentioning it to my dad to ballpark what a reasonable spending limit might be. I left him a voicemail overnight and woke up to a text message with an address to a private atelier.
Lee has a prior engagement (and if I’m honest about it, I’m not sure I can handle his particular approach to styling me today), so I extend the olive branch to Celeste instead. She doesn’t miss the opportunity to remind me I’m her sworn nemesis for not inviting her to the ball, but the chance to go on a dress binge is enough for her to declare a truce.