Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“I thought you were brave and a badass, but maybe I got you wrong,” I say.
Her head drops forward, her expression reflecting confusion. “What?”
“Up until you gave that speech, I thought you were this take-no-shit, hockey-playing hottie with a sharp tongue and mad skills on the ice.” I step forward, into her personal space. “I feel a lot of things, Snowflake, but sorry for you isn’t one of them. And unless I’m reading things wrong, there’s some mutual attraction here.” I motion between us. “I thought we were making headway with the awkward number exchange, but it feels like you just threw up some walls to shut me out before I’ve even had a chance to send you cringey messages asking when I can see you again.”
She bites her plush bottom lip. “Are you always like this?”
“I usually tell it like I see it, if that’s what you mean.” I pluck a dandelion fluff from her hair, holding it out for her to see. “Make a wish.”
“Wishes lead to disappointment.”
“Wishes are hope with wings,” I counter. “Make one.”
She shakes her head and smiles, then closes her eyes and blows on the palm of my hand. When she opens her eyes, they lift to mine. Drops of rain patter the ground around us. “I had a lot of fun tonight,” she says. “It’s probably going down as one of the coolest experiences of my life. Thank you for taking my skate hostage. It was worth it. I should go before I get soaked.” She grabs her bike handles.
I tuck a hand in my pocket. “I’m glad the universe decided our paths should cross.”
“Yeah. Me too. I think.” She steers her bike toward the dark opening between the trees.
“Snowflake,” I call when she reaches the mouth of her driveway.
She looks over her shoulder.
“If I text you, will you text back?”
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.” And with that, she disappears into the darkness.
5 THE UPS AND DOWNS OF IT ALL
Winter
Timing really is everything.
If I’d been faster getting out the door this morning, BJ and I might not have almost collided. If my reaction time had been slower, his side panel might have a me-shaped dent.
If I’d been less on the fence about giving him my number, he might have been gone by the time my dad came down the driveway. Or conversely, if I’d said yes to the diner, I could have avoided my dad altogether. Though then I might have been served by my mom, depending on how late she worked. No one needs that level of awkward.
Hanging out with rich kids is already conflicting. Did I have fun? Absolutely. Do I want to do it again? For sure. Is it a good idea? I don’t know. In the moment it’s awesome, but afterward I go back to not having enough, which makes me wish what they have could be mine for more than a couple of hours at a time.
And BJ? Well, he makes me want a lot of things.
The rain picks up as I reach the garage. I slip in and turn on the light. The space is a disorganized mess of dump worthy items, and it smells like stale beer, cigarettes, and mold. There are several clear garbage bags full of empties.
I hang my bike on the hook, so my dad doesn’t get pissed about it taking up too much space, and lay my equipment out to dry, peppering them with dryer sheets to keep them fresh between washings.
I’m on edge when I enter the house, unsure what I’m going to find. My dad going out at this time of night isn’t unheard of, but it’s often precipitated by a fight. My mom must have come home after the dinner rush, because she’s sitting on the couch with a two-liter bottle of diet cola—the no-name brand—and a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She’ll quit for a while, but she starts up again whenever she’s stressed. Seems like we’re back in the death-dart cycle.
She glances over when I walk through the door. Her eyes are red, and a pile of tissues sits beside her on the ancient, threadbare couch. Her expression shifts from sadness to guilt as she taps the cigarette, ash landing in the disposable metal tart shell.
“I’m not starting again. I just needed to take the edge off.” The end flares red as she takes a deep haul.
I hate that they smoke in the house. I put dryer sheets in my dresser drawers and shove a towel under my door at night to keep the smell out of my clothes as much as possible.
“Was he shitty because the lawn needs mowing?” I ask.
She shrugs. “He was in a mood. Didn’t like what I brought home for dinner. I don’t know why I bother trying. I should just leave, see how he manages without me.”