Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“I don’t always like myself,” he admits roughly. “In fact, sometimes I can’t stand myself and it’s like I’m trying so hard to make sure no one can see all the ways I’m just like him.”
My heart clenches for him. “You’re being pretty hard on yourself for a guy in high school. It’s not like you killed someone.”
“I appreciate that, but it’s hardly a consolation. You’re right to hate me. What I did was inexcusable.”
“It was. And you’re nowhere near off the hook for that. I’m still pissed.”
What RJ did is so beyond the usual high school bullshit that I’m not sure if I’ve entirely wrapped my head around how I feel about it. But I do understand that in his mind, there was no malicious intent. He’s just got his head on backwards.
RJ sits up. For a moment he stares out at the forest-wrapped darkness and breathes. Then he meets my eyes with real sincerity I haven’t seen before now.
“I really like you, Sloane. More than I expected to. And I know I’m an asshole for even asking this, but I promise, if you let me make it up to you, I’ll only be honest from here on out. I’ll prove you can trust me. Whatever it takes. Even if you need to stay mad for a while.”
My first reaction is to stick to my guns and tell RJ he had his shot. That while I forgive, I can’t forget. Except when I stare into his eyes I’m flooded with all the ways he felt familiar from the moment we met. That kissing him feels like the tape ripping across my chest at the finish line, filling me with adrenaline and exhilaration. A loud, insistent voice reminds me of all the ways I’ll miss him if I let him go. What I’ll never know if I don’t try.
“What does a second chance look like to you?” I finally ask.
His lips twitch with the reluctant beginnings of a smile. “I’m not here pouring my heart out for a make out session at a bar and a BJ in the woods.”
“Be specific,” I warn him.
His expression relaxes. “I want to hold your hand. I want to text you good night and good morning. I want to listen while you tell me about your day. I want an us.”
I’m not sure which one of us is doing it. But we drift closer, tides we can’t control pulling us to the place where our lips meet.
It all comes back to me. That giddy excitement and trepidation. The feeling of standing on the cliff, staring down at the waves beating against the rocks. Terrifying but impossible to resist.
Kissing RJ is a thrill I never anticipated, and as his mouth devours mine, the unbidden impulse in my gut tells me exactly what I want.
“A second chance,” I say when our lips part and he strokes the side of my face with his thumb. “A last chance.”
Fuck my life, but my gut wants him.
Chapter 30
Lawson
I’m nearly done with lunch when some freshman stumbles up to our table in the dining hall and throws a folded piece of paper at me like it’s going to self-destruct.
See me in my office before class.
—Mr. Goodwyn
“Afraid I have to eat and run, gentlemen.” I grab my bag and push my chair in as Silas furrows his brow at my sudden departure. “Appears I have a date.”
RJ, whose face is much less purple today, rolls his eyes at me. “Use condoms,” he grunts between bites of his pasta.
“Nah, rawdog it,” Fenn pipes up. “Feels better.”
“Or,” Silas suggests helpfully, “maybe just keep it in your pants?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask my roommate, cracking a faint smile.
The junior faculty offices are clear across campus in an ancient building that smells like Civil War boot rot. A secretary guards the border between the reception area and the offices beyond.
“Mr. Kent.” Petra, the seditious little minx who sits behind the desk, flips her red-rimmed glasses up to eyeball me while chewing on a coffee stirrer. “Up to our old tricks?”
“I was summoned,” I tell her, flashing a grin while I push my way through the swinging wooden gate that claps as I pass. “You look gorgeous, sweetheart. Don’t change a thing.”
Her pleased giggle tickles my back.
Mr. Goodwyn’s young and still new on campus, so they threw him in a cramped corner office with no window or ventilation. His name—JACK GOODWYN—is written on a piece of paper taped to the door. Exposed pipes rattle overhead every time someone turns on a sink or flushes a toilet. Wouldn’t want to get stuck in here during an earthquake.
He hasn’t bothered to decorate, and I wonder if it’s because he’s hoping to soon earn an upgrade or because he’s less than committed to his tenure at our fine institution. The mismatched furniture is the best of what the facilities crew could pull out of the discard pile that’s tossed together like a haphazard funeral pyre in a storage warehouse behind the gym.