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)
“Basically he told her to piss off, and she ran away with her tail between her legs. Unfortunately, they ended up in the same class the very next day and wound up in a group project together.”
Eliza gasps. “How horribly embarrassing for her.”
“I know, right?” I lean forward and grab the water bottle on the coffee table, twisting off the top and chugging before continuing on. “Now we’re at the point in our little story where they’re tossed together for this class project. Georgia tried to butter him up, as you say, by bringing him sweets. Muffins and cakes and the like, and blowing sunshine and smoke up his ass—and if you knew my brother, you would be surprised that it…did not work.”
“Then what?” Eliza is riveted, hanging on my every word.
“I’m not exactly sure when the tide shifted, but they eventually took a trip together to fabulous Las Vegas. Got trollied, shagged for the first time, got even more pissed, got married.”
“Shagged?”
Surely she’s heard of shagging. “Sex?”
The light goes on and her mouth forms an O. “Oh!”
“Shite. I skipped the part where they moved in together.”
“They lived together?”
“Yup.” Just like her and me. “She needed a place to live because she wanted to move out of the dormitories—felt too old to be living there—and Ashley had a whole house to himself and offered to have her move in.” I pause dramatically, although I already spilled the best part of the story.
“They were just friends then?”
“Nah—I think they’d made out a few times? I don’t know, he doesn’t tell me much. I have to improvise.”
“Okay, so what happened after they got married? Do they both live in England?”
I nod. “Yes, they both live in England. London, in my flat, remember? After they were wed, Georgia’s parents had a cow—kicked her out of the house and told her it was time to grow up. If she could get herself married, she could act and live like a grownup, some mumbo jumbo like that.”
“What did she do?”
“What do you mean, what did she do? She rang me, hightailed it to England, and surprised my brother by showing up on his doorstep.” Which is technically my doorstep. “And they’re probably shagging in my bed as we speak.”
A nice morning shag—one of my favorite things besides crisps and travel.
Oh. And dogs.
Pugs in particular.
“They’re happy?”
“Very.” I think. Granted, I don’t think Ash would confess if they weren’t—we haven’t had the best relationship, and we were never best mates, but we’re getting there.
He hated Caroline, and that put a strain on our relationship. With her out of the picture, however, there are no more excuses.
“It’s a good thing we have no plans to fly to Las Vegas.” Eliza chuckles as she stands. Begins collecting plates and garbage and taking them to the kitchen, depositing the disposables in the bin. “No one in this house is shagging or getting accidentally married.”
“Ha.” I trail behind, shutting off lights and tidying as we go.
“If it’s all right with you,” she says, “I should probably get upstairs and make up the bed.” She punctuates her sentence with a yawn and has me yawning, too. “Otherwise I’ll be sleeping on a bare mattress.”
“Good idea, you’re probably exhausted.” She hasn’t technically done a lot of intensive moving, but I imagine emotionally she has worn herself out. I’ve only met Kaylee a handful of times, seems like the high-maintenance and dramatic sort—not just physically but also emotionally draining, too, the kind of girl that gets on your nerves.
Can’t imagine what it would have been like to live with her.
Dreadful.
Sixteen
Eliza
I do not understand why Jack has not quit the rugby team.
We’ve been living together for almost a week, and in that span of time, I have witnessed him stress out after practice, make up several excuses for why he cannot attend practice, nurse a minor wound to his body (and dozens more to his pride), and lose sleep.
Our bedrooms may be down the hall from one another, but there is no mistaking the sound of footsteps on the carpet during all hours of the night, or the sound of the toilet flushing when he should be out cold.
It’s Saturday and I’ve wandered downstairs after several hours of studying, making my way into the laundry room to do a load of wash.
T-shirts.
Pair of jeans that may be clean but I’m unsure about.
Two hoodies.
One pair of pajama bottoms.
Shorts.
Socks, bras, and three pair of the underwear I wear to bed—not to be confused with the ones I wear during the day, ha ha.
Jack has a game, and I have the house all to myself.
Humming as I load the washing machine and add detergent, my eyes scan around the room, taking in the outdated but classy wallpaper, the dark cabinets above the machines, out to the backyard beyond.
There are hooks on the wall behind me with our jackets, shoes on the floor. Keys to the little shed in the far corner of the property, labeled Shed.