Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
“I don’t think so.”
For a second, I wanted to argue, but then the alcohol coursing through my veins hit me. My head swam, and I realized just how far gone I was. “Fine,” I think I muttered, sinking back into my chair at Cherish's warning look.
Jason and Gabe were already making their way to the foyer. We fell silent, straining to hear what was happening over the music. Gabe repeated the same question he had before and the voice came again, the same flat, unnervingly calm tone.
“Is Kristy home?”
Jason’s response was immediate. “Didn’t you just knock and get told she’s not fucking here?”
“Jason,” Daniella hissed as she jumped up and made to go get him, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol. She wasn’t exactly in a state to lecture anyone, though.
The door slammed shut, and a moment later, the guys returned to the dining room. Jason looked annoyed, his arm wrapped around her, and Gabe just shrugged like it was no big deal.
“I need to pee. Be right back. Keep playing.”
Cherish gave me a cautious look but nodded, and I stood up again, swaying slightly. I made it upstairs without falling on my ass or busting open my face so that was a win. I never drank like this. I was a casual sipper. Then again, when I went out I was with Wilder and a completely different friend group aside from my sister and Ella tagging along.
He always watched over me and knew my tells to cut off my supply. He always…watched over me. I think I was going to miss that. I rubbed my chest where it began to burn. I really missed him. I hated his ass for doing this to me, but I couldn’t take years of feelings and just pretend they didn’t exist.
I went into the room Cherish and I had claimed, Moose’s nails clicked against the floor as he followed me.
My head was swimming, and everything felt a little too loud, a little too bright. Once inside, I dug through my suitcase, drunkenly pulling out some clothes I wasn’t sure even matched and my toiletries. Somewhere in my mind, I knew not to fall asleep with a liquor mouth.
Clutching my things, I crossed the hall to one of the bathrooms. Moose stayed close, his tail wagging softly as he followed me. His presence was grounding, a small comfort against the whirlwind in my head.
“Be right back,” I told him, nudging him gently with my foot before closing and locking the door behind me.
I set my things on the counter and then went to use the toilet. When I was done, I leaned against the sink, my palms pressing into the cold porcelain. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly above me as I stared into the mirror. My reflection stared back, familiar, yet somehow distant.
I studied myself critically, taking in every detail. I knew I was pretty. Not in a vain way, but in the way you just know something about yourself. Socially above average, or at least that’s what I’d always been told by Daniella and Thorne when he broke down what his type was, wanting me to play matchmaker.
My body didn’t fit the mold of skinny and delicate like Cherish’s. She was effortless elegance, all long limbs, and understated grace. My body ping-ponged between a size 5 and a size 6 depending on the season.
I had curves, a chest that made bra shopping an event, and an ass that stayed toned thanks to years of softball and regular gym sessions. I wasn’t glamorous like the girls I’d seen on Wilder’s phone. Those girls had polished perfection down to an art—flawless makeup, hair that didn’t know what a bad day looked like, and wardrobes that screamed effortless luxury.
I could be like that, though. I liked getting dolled up, putting on a killer dress, and turning heads. But I also liked sweatpants and hoodies, messy buns, and skipping makeup just because I could. That duality was mine, and I owned it. Most of the time.
I wasn’t sure where the fuck I was going with this train of thought. That I was too pretty to be betrayed? I sneered at myself. Beyoncé got cheated on, so clearly, looks did fuck all to keep a man. Not that I wanted to hook one that way, anyway. Still, the thought that maybe that was why stung, lingering like a bitter aftertaste.
It was my inebriated brain drudging up insecurities out of freaking nowhere. Wilder never made me feel less. He called me beautiful when my hormonal acne showed up during my brutal periods. He said it when my long, usually straight hair betrayed me, sticking out in wild directions like I’d fought an electrical outlet and lost.
He whispered it when I was sick and miserable, bundled in blankets on the couch with tissues everywhere. It wasn’t just words with him; it was the way he looked at me like nothing else in the world mattered. So, it wasn’t my physical appearance. It damn sure wasn’t my personality. I refused to go there. Was that cocky? Maybe.