Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
The front door to Brower Center squeals as I open it and step inside. Our dining hall is multilevel, with a cafeteria-style buffet on the first floor and a food court setup on the second. Only the buffet is open for breakfast, though, so I skip the stairs and head directly for the wide-open double doors in front of me. It’s pretty empty this early in the morning on Fridays—I guess most everyone is sleeping in or in class—and while Kayla normally joins me, she’s at home for a family wedding this weekend, so the trays are stacked almost too high for me to reach. A little tippy-toe action does the trick, though, and I take it to the metal track at the end of the buffet to start scanning my options.
I should eat an omelet to fuel myself for the day—it’s going to be a long one since we have a game to cheer at tonight—but for some reason, today, the thought of eggs makes me want to throw up in my mouth. It’s comical since just last week, omelets were my fixation food.
As I’m passing the waffle station and eyeing the syrupy, not-nutrient-dense-at-all goodness longingly, my phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out to find a new text message from a number I don’t recognize.
An unknown number.
It’s not the number that Finn texted me from the night of the party and I saved, but that doesn’t stop the small thrill of excitement that runs through me from the memory.
Unknown: Is this Scottie Bardeaux?
My eyebrows draw together. Quickly, I type out a careful response.
Me: Who is this?
Moving on, I shove my phone back in my purse, stop at the next station, and fill my tray with oatmeal and toast. It’s boring but dependable. I grab an apple from the basket at the end of the buffet before I step up to one of the self-service checkout lines and pull my wallet out of my purse to get my Dickson U Meal Card, but my phone buzzes again before I can swipe it. I pull the phone out to check it, juggling the card and my tray in my other hand.
Unknown: Your worst nightmare.
What the hell? I glance around the dining hall, waiting for, I don’t know, a murderer wearing a Scream mask or something to pop out, but all I find are a couple of students in their pajamas, barely awake as they shuffle to fill their bellies. It’s probably just some young kid messing around or something.
Whatever.
I scan my card, grab my tray, and make my way around the drink fountain machine to the tables on the far side of the massive, open space.
I put my tray down on a table in the corner, jamming my feet into the space between the legs of the chair, and wince when I catch my open-sandaled toe on the metal bar that runs across the bottom of the table.
“Ow, fudgesickles!”
A dark head jerks up on the other side of the planter that divides the midpoint of the tables, and mysterious brown eyes lock with mine. Eyes I haven’t had the privilege of seeing in what feels like forever.
Finn.
“H-ey,” I say, my voice box just as startled by the sight of him as my brain.
“Hey,” he says back, shifting in his seat before folding his textbook closed on the table.
“I stubbed my toe. Shocker, huh?” I tease, trying to add a little levity to the awkward tension, but he just jerks up his chin in a nod, opens his book back up, and starts reading again.
Really? He can’t even make civil conversation? A wave of anger and frustration consumes me, sending me into a tailspin that’s entirely out of character.
“Hey!” I say again, but this time, it’s a snap. Agitated, choppy movements compound into me storming straight toward his table while he looks on. “Are you avoiding me?”
His rigid jaw breaks, bending his face into a hint of a smirk. “Well…yeah. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Right. Yes. I mean, of course it is. But I don’t—”
“Scottie, let me stop you right there, okay?” His hair falls just slightly over his eyes, and I have the most annoying urge to push it back for him. “I don’t have a problem with you. In fact, I like you fine. Too much, probably. But I think—actually, I know—we’re better off keeping our distance.”
“Oh.” Ouch.
“You and I are from totally different worlds,” he adds. “You went to private school. I—”
“You and Ace are from different worlds too. His parents have more money than God.”
He sighs. “Ace is a leech. I’ve tried to get rid of him, but I can’t.”
“Well, maybe I’m a leech too.”
He shakes his head. “No, Scottie. You’re above that shit.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re just—” He stops midsentence and shrugs, shoving back in his seat and then leaning forward again, his eyes intense. “Look, Scottie, if I don’t need you, you don’t need me. You are not desperate. For anyone. Understand?”