Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Stop crying, my inner critic scolds. You’re being ridiculous. It’s just an essay.
I try again to draw air into my lungs. My brain begins to scroll through the exercises my counselors and parents encourage me to do during a panic attack: I repeat that I’m going to be okay. I visualize giving myself a big hug. I think of Nana Celeste (who always calms me). But the scrolling stops when my gaze drops to the sea of yellow stickies on the floor, the jumble of thoughts that make up my nutty brain.
Another choked sob slips out.
“Summer?”
I freeze at the sound of Fitz’s voice. It’s followed by a soft knock on my door.
“You okay?”
My breath escapes in a trembling wheeze. “F-fine!” I manage to answer, and cringe at the crack in my voice.
He hears it too. “I’m opening the door now, okay?”
“No,” I blurt out. “I’m fine, Fitz. I promise.”
“I don’t believe you.” The door eases open and his handsome, worried face appears.
He takes one look at me and curses roughly. Before I can blink, he’s kneeling beside me. One warm hand grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “What’s wrong?” he demands.
“Nothing.” My voice shakes again.
“You’re crying. That’s not nothing.” His eyes drop to the dozens of notes stuck to the floor. “What’s all this?”
“Evidence of my stupidity,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop saying nothing. Talk to me.” His thumb rubs a gentle line up my wet cheek. “I’m a good listener, I promise. Tell me what’s wrong.”
My lips start quivering. Dammit, I feel another wave of tears coming. And that makes me angry again. “I can’t fucking do this, that’s what’s wrong.”
I fling a hand out and sweep the Post-It notes away. Some of them remain stuck to the hardwood, while others fly across the room or slide under the bed.
Fitz plucks one of the notes and reads it. “Is this for a paper you’re working on?”
“Midterm,” I whisper. “Which I’m going to fail.”
Letting out a breath, he shifts positions so he’s sitting. He hesitates for a beat, before reaching for me.
Maybe if I wasn’t feeling so vulnerable at the moment, I would’ve been strong enough to push him away. But I’m weak and I feel defeated, and when he holds out his arms, I climb into his lap, bury my face against his chest, and allow him to comfort me.
“Hey,” he murmurs, running a soothing hand up and down my back. “It’s okay to be overwhelmed by school. We all stress about it.”
“You get stressed?” I ask in a small voice.
“All the time.”
His fingers thread through my hair, and I suddenly feel like a child again. My mom used to stroke my hair whenever I got upset. Sometimes my brother Nick did too, if I scraped a knee or bumped my head thanks to whatever daredevil stunt I’d attempted that day. I was a rambunctious kid. Hell, I’m a rambunctious adult.
The warmth of Fitz’s strong body seeps into me. I press my cheek to his collarbone and voice an embarrassed confession. “I have a learning disability.”
“Dyslexia?” His voice is thick with understanding.
“No. It’s more of a cluster of symptoms related to ADHD. I have a very hard time concentrating and organizing my thoughts on paper. I was on medication for it when I was a kid, but the meds gave me terrible headaches and made me nauseous and dizzy, so I went off them. I tried taking them again in my teens, but the same symptoms kept happening.” I give a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. “My brain doesn’t like the meds. Unfortunately, that means it’s up to me to focus my thoughts, and that’s really hard sometimes.”
“What can I do to help?”
I jerk up in surprise. “What?”
His gaze is earnest, shining with sincerity. Not even a hint of pity there. “You’re having trouble with your midterm, so how can I help?”
I’m a bit dazed. Awkwardly, I slide off his lap and sit cross-legged beside him. The moment we’re no longer touching, I miss the warmth of his body. For a fleeting moment, THE KISS floats into my mind, but I swat it away like a pesky fly. Fitz hasn’t mentioned the kiss, and right now he’s not looking at me like he wants to stick his tongue in my mouth.
He looks genuinely eager to help me.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer. “I just… There’s so much information.” Anxiety fills my stomach again. “We’re talking fifty decades’ worth of fashion. I’m not sure what to focus on, and if I can’t condense all the info, this paper will be like fifty pages long, and it’s only supposed to be three thousand words, and I don’t know how to streamline all the ideas, and—”
“Breathe,” he orders.
I stop and do what he says. The oxygen clears my brain a little.
“You’re letting yourself get carried away again. You need to go one step at a time.”