Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
The last woman I hooked up with would constantly criticize other women in front of me, tearing them down for having fake breasts, lip injections, hair extensions, or anything else she deemed unnatural because it made her feel better for having her own perceived imperfections.
Campbell, in comparison, is a breath of fresh air.
I wait for her to finish up before flicking off the lights and heading to bed.
She climbs in beside me. “We still have twenty minutes until your bedtime.”
“And?”
Lying on her side, she faces me, her head cradled on the top of her hand. “We should talk. Really talk for once. Get to know each other better. None of this bickering, bantering, flirting stuff.”
“What could you possibly need to know about me that you don’t already know?” I ask. “And I don’t know if you understand what flirting is …”
“You’re going to have to let your guard down at some point. You can’t be like this forever.” Campbell sighs. “God, it must be exhausting being you.”
If she only knew.
.
Slade—
I had an epiphany today. What if you secretly do like me? What if you’re only being mean because you’re like the playground bully who doesn’t want anyone to know he has a crush on a girl? I don’t know why that just occurred to me today, but I was thinking about how you can’t really hate someone if you don’t know them. And you don’t know me at all.
Campbell (age 17)
Campbell—
That’s not so much an epiphany as it is wishful thinking. Plenty of people hate other people without knowing them. Maybe open a history book at some point and enlighten yourself.
Slade (age 18)
Slade—
Are you putting yourself in the same category as Nazis? KKK members? Hating people without knowing them is pretty evil.
Campbell (age 17)
Campbell—
When have I ever said I hated you?
Slade (age 18)
Slade—
The first letter you ever sent me. You literally said you hated me …
Campbell (age 17)
Campbell—
That’s right. Forgot about that. Anyway, I don’t hate you. But I don’t like you either. Hope that clears everything up for you.
Slade (age 18)
Slade—
Can I ask why you don’t like me? Not that I care. Just curious.
Campbell (age 17)
Campbell—
No you may not.
Slade (age 18)
15
Campbell
I wake with a pounding headache the next morning as a thunderstorm rolls through the area. Fluxing barometric pressure always does this to me and Florida is the thunderstorm capital of the country, but of course I left my medicine at home.
The clock on the nightstand reads 6 AM and Slade’s half of the bed is empty, the covers pulled up to his pillow and smoothed out. He’s probably out doing his daily half marathon. I’m usually a light sleeper, but all week he’s managed to impressively get out the door without waking me. Whether it’s intentional or not remains to be seen. Maybe I’m just sleeping harder here because of the plush bedding and blackout curtains? With the exception of today’s headache, I’ve been waking up feeling unusually refreshed all week.
Shuffling to the bathroom, I rifle through a few drawers in search of Advil, Tylenol, or aspirin only to come up empty-handed. Heading down to the kitchen, I open every cupboard until I find a shelf with bottles upon bottles of vitamins and protein powders.
“Can I help you find something?” A man’s voice startles the breath from my lungs. But it isn’t Slade.
“Oliver, you scared me,” I say. “What are you doing here? The sun isn’t even out yet …”
“Slept here last night. My house is getting renovated.” He grabs a coffee mug from a cupboard. “Been going between here and Delia’s.”
“Oh.” I had no idea.
“You want coffee?” he offers.
“Sure.”
He grabs a second mug and heads to the built-in espresso machine.
“How have you been?” I ask when we settle into two stools at the island closest to the windows. The sun should be rising any minute now and the sky is already painted dreamy shades of peach and lavender and baby blue. I’ve watched the sun rise back home more times than I can count, but something about the swaying palm trees gives it a whole new vibe.
“Just living the dream,” he says with a chuckle as he sips his coffee.
“How’s the yacht business?”
“A little slow this time of year, but our calendar’s getting full for the upcoming season. How’s being a stay-at-home person going?” He winks.
I laugh, nearly spitting out my coffee.
The thing I’ve always loved about Oliver is that he can give me a hard time without coming off like an asshole.
“I’m going to tell my mom to use that term when people ask her what I’m up to from now on,” I say, though Blythe Wakemont would never. “Half the time she trips over her words and gets all embarrassed, like it’s somehow shameful to her that I’m not doing anything remarkable or bragworthy right now—never mind that she’s the reason for that. Well, her and my father.”