Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
It’s honest.
“He isn’t texting me back.”
Yes, I know. I’ve seen firsthand the number of messages she’s bombarded him with and have the urge to lecture her about self-respect and not chasing a guy who has no interest.
Time and place, Eliza.
Time.
And.
Place.
“Kaylee,” I begin slowly, choosing my words. “If he isn’t texting you back, that’s probably your answer.”
“What do you mean?”
Oh lord. “I mean…” I roll to my side, tucking my hand beneath my chin and staring out the open door. Not looking at her or meeting her inquisitive, naïve gaze. “If he liked you, he would text you back. Even if he just considered you a friend.”
“So you think he has a girlfriend?”
This conversation is painful. How is she not taking the hint? How is it not obvious to her that he is not interested in her romantically or otherwise?
Stubborn.
Spoiled.
Persistent.
Which would be great if she were trying to win a bakeoff, or a contest, or anything else that required fortitude and a competitive edge—but this is a man’s heart she’s determined to win.
And he is determined not to let her because he’s already captured mine.
“To be safe, assume he’s dating someone.”
There. That should put an end to this discussion.
“Who?”
“How the heck would I know?”
“You’re friends with him,” she persists.
Little does she know…
I roll to my back then sit up, frustrated. “Kaylee, are you being serious right now? The guy isn’t texting you back—let it go.”
“I have to know!”
“Why? You barely know him and you don’t even like him—you’re making out with other people every time you leave the house.”
It’s too dark to see her expression, but I don’t miss the hair toss. “So? It’s not like we’re engaged.”
“I’m too tired for this.” I try to roll back to my side and ignore her presence at the side of my bed, but she’s making it impossible by looming over me.
“Why? Where were you last night?”
“With a friend. We went…stargazing.”
“Ugh.” She moves toward the door, losing interest—thank God. “You’re such a nerd.”
I’m a nerd because I went and sat in the bed of a truck with a cute boy, looked up at the stars, and had a romantic evening?
Yeah, okay.
“Gee, thanks.”
She lingers in the doorway, hand on the wood.
“You’ll tell me if he says anything, right?”
“There is nothing to tell,” I lie, unable to look her in the eye though the room isn’t dark enough for her to see my guilty expression.
I want to bury my face in the comfort of my fluffy pillow and groan, something I do when she finally walks out the door, leaving me in peace.
Leaving me with my own thoughts.
They stay with me throughout the entire day—through studying, dinner, and the movie I watch before climbing back into bed, sliding in with a sigh, heart heavy.
I am not the girl who lies to her friends.
I am not the girl who hides things.
Why did this happen?
This isn’t who I am!
It’s dark, but I’m not tired—my brain wouldn’t let me sleep even if I was ready—so I grapple for my phone and poke on my music app, choosing something mellow to listen to while I lie here. Resist the urge to go on social media and sleuth around as I usually do to kill time.
My brain needs to shut off.
After several unsuccessful minutes, I give up. Toss back my comforter and rise, going to the desk and grabbing my sketch pad and a few pencils.
Hop back on the bed and flop to my stomach, arranging everything around me. Sketching won’t make me tired, but it will keep my mind busy.
The door flies open.
“Is it true? Is this you?”
My roommate is standing there, door pushed wide open, dark hallway framing her figure. Hands on her hips, she looks confrontational.
“Jesus, Kaylee, you scared the crap out of me.” My heart pounds, and not in a good way.
She flips on the overhead light and strolls in.
“Is. This. You.”
She is going to have to be more specific. “Is what me?”
I’m barely paying her any attention; this is the second time Kaylee has burst into my room within the same day, and I’m lying flat on my bed, on my stomach, sketchbook and papers fanned out in front of me—in the middle of working on my comic book. I haven’t touched my pencil and notepad in days, so preoccupied with Jack that I haven’t even thought twice about it.
I glance over my shoulder as Kaylee stands beside the bed, looking downright furious.
I doodle as she lingers.
“Would you look at me? This is serious.”
Exhaling a resigned breath, I flick my pencil so it rolls onto my paper and brace myself on my elbows.
“Is what me?”
“This. Is that your red hoodie?”
Oh, you mean the hoodie that’s inside my closet, in the laundry basket, waiting to be washed?
That red hoodie?
I blush, mouth opening.
Mouth closes.