Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
His gaze drifts over my face. “You know there’s a legend here at Waylon about our famous bonfire party?”
“Oh?”
He smiles, a flash of white on his handsome face. “Legend says the first person you kiss at the party is the one you’ll never forget. It might be years later, and still their face is the one you dream about.”
“Sounds like hocus-pocus.”
He lifts that mesmerizing left eyebrow. “I like to believe in legends—after all, I am one.”
I smirk. “Probably a game made up by some frat-boy-slash-jock wanting to kiss all the girls.”
He pauses for a moment as if thinking, and then he steps in closer, so close that I can see the varying shades of blue around his pupils. “May I?”
My heart does somersaults.
“May you what?” I ask, my voice low, but I know what he wants. My body is already leaning toward him, wanting it too.
“This.” He kisses me, an almost imperceptible touch as he brushes his full lips against mine. The contact of our mouths is electric, sparks of fire skating along my skin.
As if from a distance, I hear someone calling his name. It’s a female, and she’s pissed.
It’s one of the twins probably.
And I’m jealous.
But, I don’t look. We pull away, and I stare at him as he stares right back. A stillness settles over the party, although I don’t think anything’s actually changed. The music is still playing. People are still talking. Beers are being passed around.
Yet…
We’re connected.
Two stars in the black velvet sky.
Two ships passing in the night.
Oh, fuck, stop the nonsense, I tell myself.
“What was that?” I ask, my voice breathless.
“That’s your first kiss of the bonfire. Now you’ll never forget me.”
And then, before I can think of a reply, he’s gone.
I watch him go back to the twins, frustration coiling inside of me as I exhale.
It would be two years before I kissed him again.
Delaney
It’s Valentine’s Day evening, and my social life is worse than when I was a brace-faced freshman at William Henry Prep School in Charlotte, North Carolina. At least back then one of the geeks from my math class gave me a tiny heart-shaped box of stale chocolates and a brown teddy bear. All I have this year is a broken heart, a bottle of premium vodka, and an eighties horror movie.
Skye is out having fun, and I’m glad for her. She left the off-campus house we share earlier for a date with her boyfriend, Tyler, and here I sit…languishing in yoga pants and crying into my popcorn.
I send a longing glance at my phone, waiting for it to buzz with a call or text from someone who cares about me…but it remains silent, mocking me as I press myself into the worn brown leather of the sofa. I hate feeling sorry for myself, but sometimes it gets to me that I don’t have any family since my Nana—the person who raised me—passed right before I left for college.
God. I’m lonely.
My nose takes a whiff of the blanket that’s pulled up to my face, and I swear I still smell leftover hints of my ex’s spicy cologne. Alex is a special teams kicker for the football team at Waylon, and we’d been together since we met in a literature class freshman year. He was my first, the person I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with, and for the past year, part of me half-expected him to propose. Instead, he cheated.
I take a sip of Grey Goose straight from the bottle, eyeing it balefully. At least he had great taste in vodka.
I lift the bottle in the air, toasting. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Alex, wherever you are. I hope Martha-Muffin can give you what I couldn’t—ideally, the clap.”
Yep, my arch nemesis from freshman year slept with my boyfriend, and the worst part was I’d walked in on them in his dorm room.
Feeling that familiar melancholy of being alone creep in, I turn my attention back to the movie. Eerie, spooky music escalates from the surround sound speakers as a girl runs through a forest, her head twisting as she looks to see if she’s being followed. Terror is stamped on her face.
It was on Skye’s dare that I chose this particular flick, and part of me knows she really just wants me to be preoccupied on a night when I’m alone.
The popcorn is still warm from the microwave as I pop some in my mouth and chew rather furiously, watching as the heroine on the screen is suddenly accosted by a burly figure with a mask. I scream—even though I knew it was coming—sending fluffy white kernels flying. Han Solo, my cat, stands and hisses at me, his black and white fur sticking straight out. I’ve upended him from his comfy position on the couch.
“Sorry, little man.”
Screw the dare. I’ll take her punishment, which would no doubt be inventive. The last time I lost, she made me stand on a table in the cafeteria and call out, “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”