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)
Me: You okay?
Willow: I heard the front door. I think Jack and Trav might be home.
Me: Stay in your room until I get there.
Willow: Okay, Finn.
I look at my bloodied, broken knuckles again. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get there.
But there’s a reason I didn’t lose to Donnie Marks last night. And my siblings are an even better reason not to lose today.
Tuesday, October 8th
Scottie
The class is nearly full, and Professor Winslow is writing details about our first big exam on the whiteboard when Finn walks in. Everything inside me seethes as he walks straight for the front row and takes an empty seat next to Ace.
I’m on the side of the room, somewhere I never dreamed of sitting when I started the semester. But with Dane and Nadine cuddling in the back and Ace and an empty seat in the front, I had nowhere else to go.
No calls. No texts. I’ve gotten zilch from Finnley Hayes since we fell asleep in his bed together Saturday night and he disappeared Sunday morning, and I’m officially pissed off.
He kissed me at the Double C fight. Twice. He invited me to sleep in his room, and he’s the one who kissed me after climbing into the bed. Not the other way around.
Ace tried to play the whole thing off like it was no big deal—tried to make me feel better about waking up in their room alone with him and Julia—but Finn’s said more with his actions than Ace could have even dreamed of covering during his fast talk.
Finn may have wanted me Saturday night, but Sunday morning, his regret was swift and absolute, and I’ve got no option left but righteous anger.
I am done.
Professor Winslow is going through a study guide for our Wuthering Heights exam, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t hear a single thing he’s saying.
My stupid gaze slithers back to Finn over and over, caressing each layer of skin in an attempt to peel him like an onion. I wish I understood him better.
At least then, I would know the best direction to point my wrath.
“I hope you realize I’m being nice here, giving you this awesome study guide that you should definitely utilize for your first big exam,” Professor Winslow says, doing everything but a wink and nudge to tell us the questions on the exam will be at least similar to those on the guide.
Still, a guy in our class raises his hand, a frown on his face.
“Yes, Ben?”
“My study guide doesn’t have any answers.”
Professor Winslow frowns. “Shoot.” He flips the paper over in his hands and then jogs toward Ben immediately. “Here. Try mine,” he says as he hands Ben the paper.
Ben flips it around in his hands. “Hey! This one doesn’t have any answers either!”
Professor Winslow offers an amused smile in Ben’s direction. “That’s right. The point of the study guide is to help you study. So, yes, your study guide doesn’t have any answers because you’re supposed to fill them out and learn while you do.”
“That blows,” Ben groans, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.
Professor Winslow laughs, slapping him on the shoulder. “Welcome to college, son.”
Ace’s laughter pulls my attention to the front of the room again, and Professor Winslow jogs back down to his desk to continue his explanation.
I stare with hard eyes at Finn as he smiles at something Ace says, and a bruise stands out on his face among the rest. It’s on the top of his right cheekbone, and it shines in the stark auditorium-style lights. I know I watched half the fight with Donnie from behind my hands, but I don’t remember Finn getting hit there. Not to mention all the staring at his face I did before I fell asleep in his bed. I would have noticed it.
My phone buzzes in my backpack, and I discreetly pull it out, expecting another “Hope you’re having a good day, sweetie!” text from my adorable but cheesy dad, and end up frowning at the sight of more stupid messages from an unknown number.
Hey, skank.
A few seconds later, another populates the screen.
What’s it like having an alcoholic mom who hates her daughter so much she drank her entire pregnancy?
Dread seeps into my gut, and an irrational urge to throw my phone across the room consumes me. I tried to block the number when they started sending messages, but they just send from a new number every time.
And now, the messages are escalating. This one is personal—so cruel that emotion clogs my throat and tears threaten to spill from my eyes. Whoever is behind this knows more than I wish they did.
Don’t let this get to you, I silently tell myself and swallow hard against the discomfort in my chest. I shut my eyes until the tears stop threatening and shove my phone back into my backpack.