Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Girlfriend? You never mentioned a girlfriend.”
“We haven’t talked since the summer. Alice and I met at the start of the semester.”
Jordan’s attention shifts to Alice. “Hi, I’m Jordan. Reagan’s ex-girlfriend”––she holds out a hand––“but I’m sure he’s told you all about me.”
No. Not really. I mentioned having had a girlfriend in high school once, and only in passing after Alice told me she’d had a boyfriend in high school. I never spoke of Jordan by name.
Alice goes to shake it with a soft smile of her face. “Alice and yes, he did.” She lied to spare Jordan’s feelings. Damn, I am in deep with this girl. And getting a pressing urge to take her away from here and kiss her until she admits that she liked kissing me too. That she wasn’t as unaffected as she looked.
Regaining her footing, Jordan pushes her long brown hair off her shoulder and smiles.
“Well…” my mother interrupts. She smiles stiffly. It’s so forced it looks painful. I can’t decide if she looks disappointed because I blew up her carefully laid trap, or because she disapproves of Alice. “Let’s eat, shall we?”
Alice
“I’m ready to come home. I can’t take another Boston winter,” Jordan says as she cuts her asparagus into tiny child-friendly bites. She’s pretty. Tall and willowy with straight, brown hair. Seated across from me, next to her mother, her blue eyes have not left Reagan, who’s gone completely silent since we sat down an hour ago. They’ve all been speaking around me like I don’t exist. Which, in all fairness, I prefer.
“No Harvard Medical School for you?” Reagan’s dad asks, seated at the head of the table opposite his wife.
Talk about intimidating…he’s said a total of one sentence to me since I walked in. “Nice to meet you, Alice.” That’s it. He keeps giving me the suspicious side-eye, though. That’s been fun #houseofhorrors.
Reagan looks like his dad––tall, perfect bone structure––with the exception of his eyes. His father has blue eyes like Brian. The resemblance is kind of creeping me out because he’s like…Evil Reagan. If this were a Marvel movie, that’s who Pat Reynolds would be. By the way, the only reason I know his name is because Jordan addressed him as Dr. Reynolds and he insisted she call him Pat.
All this hidden under a carefully orchestrated disguise. His mother, who I know is in her mid fifties, looks not a day older than forty with her cute, punky haircut and her expensive, casual designer clothes. Same goes for his dad. His hair does not have a single gray hair, I suspect courtesy of a very expensive hairdresser. And his clothes––the slim-fitted pink dress shirt and flat-front slacks say, I’m an easygoing, hip guy. Yeah, no. Easygoing and hip are not even in his vocab.
“No,” Jordan answers.
“With your grades, you’ll have your pick,” Reagan’s father claims.
“UCLA is my first choice. I’m looking forward to being back home, close to Mom and Dad.” Jordan smiles at her father.
“Liz, you must be so proud.” Rea’s mom beams at her friend.
“Yes. We are.” Liz shares a satisfied smile with her husband. Then she aims her pointed interest at Rea. “What about you, Reagan? Made any decisions?”
“No,” Reagan answers without hesitation.
“UCLA. Surgery,” his father answers for him and I watch his grip on his utensils tighten.
Jordan grins broadly at Reagan. “That would be so much fun to have classes together again. Isn’t it strange how things come full circle? Almost like fate is playing a role in it.”
“It’s not fate. It’s my father not understanding what the hell the words I haven’t made a decision yet mean,” Reagan fires back.
All this hostility reminds me of what I’m missing out on. The screaming kids and the three dogs barking. The cat, the hamsters. All the food and laughter. My parents are, as usual, spending Thanksgiving at Uncle Joe’s, my stepmom’s brother’s house.
I feel so bad for Reagan I want to pull him into a hug and take him away from this awful place.
His father shoots him a warning glare, but stops short of arguing. Then, God help me, Dr. Reynolds’s pointed stare moves to me. “What about you, Alice? Any career plans or are you just going to wing it like the rest of your generation?”
Beside me, I feel every fiber of Reagan’s being drawing tight enough to pluck.
“I have a very clear career plan, actually,” I tell him with my chin held high. “I’m a film major with an emphasis on cinematography. I’m going to be a cinematographer.”
“Hollywood is a tough place for a woman. What’s your plan B?”
“Pat, things are changing,” his mom remarks.
“Not enough. For every ten men maybe one woman finds steady work. What kind of life is that?” he argues with his wife. “Unless she plans on living off her parents. I see a lot of that these days.” His frosty gaze is back on me. “What about your parents? How do they feel about you chasing this dream on their dime?”