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)
I scramble for the remote and mute it, wondering if it counts if I watch without the sound on. I am watching it, just minus all the bloodcurdling screams and spine-tingling music.
“Give me Sixteen Candles or The Goonies any freaking day—those are the best of the eighties,” I mutter under my breath as I stare down at Han. “You agree?”
His head cocks ever so slightly. He gets me. I know he does.
I exhale and sit back down, tucking my legs underneath me as I lean my head back against the couch.
Ping!
My phone goes off with a text and I straighten up to retrieve it from the table.
My brow furrows at the unknown number. Usually those are telemarketers or scammers…but it’s a local prefix.
I read the text. Hey, sexy. I’m glad I have a library card because I was checking you out today. Do you have a Band-Aid? Because I scraped my knee falling for you.
Two things happen at once: I half-giggle and half-snort, causing a coughing fit I quickly recover from. I was in the library this morning before my upper level psychology class to work on a paper, but I didn’t notice anyone staring at me. Must be my bestie pulling a prank on me with someone else’s phone.
I quickly type a response. Skye? What happened to your date with Tyler?
It’s entirely possible she’s feeling sorry for me, has skipped out for a minute to check on me, and is using Tyler’s phone. Any minute now she’s going to ask if I’m still watching Michael Myers.
Another text comes in. I’m not on a date and I don’t know a Skye. Is she as hot as you?
Stop messing around, I send. I’ve had a tiny bit of vodka…okay, a lot.
I’m a dude. Swear to baby Jesus.
My brow wrinkles. Is it possible this isn’t Skye? But then who is it?
How did you get this number? I type out.
You put up a listing on the Help Wanted board in the student center a while back. I saw you and got the number. I saw you again today at the library so it must be a sign for us to get together. Wanna hook up, babe?
Babe?
Hook up?
What an assuming ass, I think as mortification shoots through me. No one has answered the listing I put up looking for a male partner to take a salsa class with me. Thankfully, the posting didn’t have my name on it (so embarrassing), just my phone number, and I’ve been meaning to take it down, but between working at the library and class, I haven’t found the time. I was in a weak place when the idea struck, and now, looking back, it reeks of desperation from a girl who’d recently been cheated on and was lonely.
I glare at the phone as if the jerkwad on the other side can actually see me.
I’m not your personal Tinder, I reply, my fingers flying across the screen. Go find someone else to harass.
Nothing comes through for the next fifteen minutes as I stare blindly at the television, not really seeing anything, just fuming, my mind racing through possibilities of who saw me posting the ad. Hundreds of students pass through every day, and it could have been anyone. I think back to my morning study session today at the library, trying to recall if anyone was watching me, but I was hyper-focused (as usual) and kept my head down.
I should probably block this number.
A new text pings.
Hey, look, I’m sorry. This isn’t the person with the horrible pick-up lines and offer of sex who first texted you. Those messages were from my asshole friend who took my phone and texted you without my knowledge. I have it back now so we’re cool, right? Sorry for the inconvenience and I hope you find a salsa partner. Later.
Finally, a polite text—except for the goodbye part, because I wasn’t done talking. I still want to know who these two people are. Part of me wonders if it’s Alex, feeling me out, maybe seeing if I’ve moved on. He has been texting me, trying to engage me in a dialogue, but I’ve ignored him. This doesn’t seem like his style though.
Hold your horses, stalker. Who are you?
Seconds tick by and I can see the dots on the screen indicating he’s replying. I’m picturing a loser at a frat house, the first one to fall asleep, and instead of drawing a giant dick on his forehead, they stole his phone and texted random girls.
My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
I laugh under my breath at the iconic movie reference and part of me relaxes. Good one, I text.
You’re a fan of The Princess Bride?
One of my favorites. I even have a t-shirt with Buttercup and Westley on it, I type, referring to the two main characters.