Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 701(@200wpm)___ 561(@250wpm)___ 467(@300wpm)
Her eyes widen with annoyance as she holds my headphones hostage. “I asked you a fucking question.”
“I obviously didn’t hear you,” I say, snatching the headphones back but not putting them on. “What do you want?”
“I asked if you’ve seen my red lipstick.”
“No.” Irritation cuts my tone short, but Jesus, she doesn’t have to be such a pain in the ass.
“Are you sure? I thought I saw it in your room the other day.”
“I don’t wear red lipstick,” I tell her.
Ignoring me, she walks over and starts knocking things over on top of my dresser, looking for the lipstick I never touched and muttering, “I know you have it.”
I shake my head and slide my noise-cancelling headphones back on. I secure them over my ears to block out the noise and try to go back to researching for the paper I’m writing, but it’s no use. My concentration is broken, and I won’t be able to repair it as long as my mother is moving through the room like a fucking cyclone.
Tamping down rage as she tosses things out of my backpack and makes a complete mess of my room, I seek some kind of distraction so I don’t absolutely lose it.
Social media is generally a good distraction, so I grab my phone and tap one of my apps.
There are more notifications than I normally have and I haven’t even updated it recently. Confusion furrows my brow. I click one of the notifications, a pair of curious emoji eyeballs left as a comment on a photo I don’t recognize from the tiny thumbnail.
The picture isn’t mine. It’s from an account I’m not immediately familiar with, but I’m tagged in it.
When I get a good look at the picture, I realize it must be Jet’s. The picture is the one he snapped last night of me walking away and glancing back at him. He worked the filters very well, and the way the moonlight and streetlights are framing me, it’s a really excellent shot. The caption reads, “And then she appeared” with a serene-looking emoji.
This picture has considerably more interest than most of his other posts, but giving them a look, I can see why. Jet is brilliant and I’m sure that will pay off for him someday, but not while he’s in high school. Most of his posts are inventions or science projects, quotes from brilliant people, and just a lot of totally unrelatable shit.
I shake my head, in awe that this brainy nerd wants Brylee “the train wreck” White.
Well, I told him I would do my part, so I do, leaving a single red heart in a comment on his picture.
Maybe a minute later, a text message from Jet flashes across the top of my phone screen. I tap it and read his message. “Our post is getting a lot of traction. Even more than I expected.”
I smile faintly and type back, “Yep. Brylee will be yours in no time.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he types back. “It was a good start, but we’ll need to work a little harder to sell it. Are you doing anything tonight? I feel like we should take advantage of the interest and post again. I’m working on a project. Maybe you could help me out with it? That way I could get in some tutoring, as well. You can come for dinner.”
My heart beats a little faster as I consider going over to Milo’s house for dinner. “Just us, or will everyone be there?”
“My dad will be home, but my brother’s out. I like the playful, intimate vibes for our post. We’ll find another opportunity to take a shot like that tonight. It will appear organic. It will start to look like we’re a couple even before we say anything about it.”
Sure, whatever you say, Jet.
Honestly, the mood Mom’s in tonight, I just want to get out of the house. Any excuse will do.
While she makes a mess of my room, I grab my charge cord and shove it in my oversized purse. The movement grabs Mom’s attention, and she whips around to look at me sharply. “Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
“A friend’s house. He needs help with a school project.”
“Yeah, I bet he does,” she says sarcastically, the implication being that I’m obviously heading out to eat a dick or something.
She’d probably really blow a gasket if she knew where I was actually going. I don’t feel like dealing with it, so I’m definitely not going to tell her.
Since I’m leaving, it seems like ransacking my room isn’t as fun anymore, so she goes back to the bathroom, complaining loudly about her missing lipstick.
I go to the kitchen to grab my keys off the ceramic strawberry dish where we keep the car keys. When I pick mine up, my gaze catches on a lipstick tube on the counter that seems to have rolled behind the cookie jar.