Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Ten years ago
March 6
I want to get up out of this seat before the bell goes off, but I have to wait. Class is over and the sound of everyone packing their geography books and notebooks back into their backpacks along with chatter and laughter surround me. But it’s all just white noise.
My breath comes in shallow pants as I peek over at Nathan and find him staring at me.
I’m quick to rip my eyes away from him and focus on shoving my textbook into my bag. It won’t fit and I find myself shoving it harder and harder and getting more and more pissed off. I know I’m taking out my frustrations on the damn over packed bookbag, but at least it’s an outlet.
I hate him. I hate Nathan for what he said last night. I hate that we’re on-again, off-again. I hate that I gave myself to him. Each thought accompanies a shove until the stupid book is in place and I have to zip up the bag.
I mostly hate him for letting me go so easily. For making it clear that I’m not to him what he is to me. That’s the part I hate the most. I hate I gave so much of myself to him. The bell goes off, and I tear my eyes from the bag then look up to the clock above the door.
Shit. I wanted to be the first out. I wanted to beat him and get away from him. Fuck it. I’ll let him leave first then. I collapse into the seat, leaving the bag on the floor and slipping my thumb under my bra strap that fell down my arm, hiking it back up. Staring straight ahead, I ignore everyone, all of the students filing out and look fixedly at the blackboard. Mr. Jones’ chicken scratch of whatever he was talking about today is still there. I didn’t hear a damn word, not that it matters. All his tests are based on the quizzes in the back of every chapter.
The sounds get softer and softer as the room empties and I try not to watch the door. I won’t watch him leave; I refuse to give him that satisfaction.
The sound of sneakers scuffing against the floor to my left forces me to look. I keep my head down, but I recognize his jeans, his shoes. I know it’s him and it makes my heart sink into the pit of my stomach. I cried all night and I don’t want to cry here. Even if the only person left in this damn room is Mr. Jones.
“You want me to get it?” Nathan asks me and I have to look up, confused by what he means.
“Your bag?” he clarifies and I don’t know how to answer. I can’t keep doing this back and forth. I can’t be friends with an ex. Not the two of us. I love him too much to just be friends.
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. My voice feels raw and I can feel the tears pricking, threatening to spill over.
It’s when he tosses my bag over his shoulder and holds his hand out for me to take that the splintered pieces in my chest seem to warm, growing hotter and hotter until I place my hand in his and stand up in the small space he’s given me. There’s something about the way my hand fits so perfectly in his. Something about the way his thumb moves along the back of my hand. It makes me feel like it’s alright. Like everything is better than alright. Like it’s supposed to be this way.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers and plants a small kiss in my hair.
It’s not a thought, not a conscious decision. I only pull my hand away from his so I can wrap my arms around him and bury my head into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe into his chest and peek up at him. It’s not our first fight or even the second. And each time it hurts more and more, but when he holds me again, when I know he still loves me, that feeling is the best in the world. I can’t imagine anything feels better than that.
The door to Lydia’s room opens, letting in the sounds of chatter outside the room and the construction noises from a set being built only twenty feet or so away. It’s silenced when she closes it and she sags against the door with the biggest smile on her face.
The social butterfly that she is, she’s been networking like crazy and I’m sure that she won’t rest until everyone here knows exactly who Lydia Parker is.
“You have to leave this room, Harlow,” Lydia says as she walks to the small fridge and grabs a bottle of water. “For real, there are so many people you need to meet.” She takes a swig and then plays with the plastic cap between her fingers. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this hideaway shit will not cut it here.”