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)
I nod.
“And instead of sticking around to talk to the girl who suc—” His gaze drops to his daughter. He promptly rephrases. “—the girl who did stuff to your body, you came here instead?”
Guilt sears into me. Fuck. I’m such an ass. That beautiful, amazing girl knelt on wet, uncomfortable tile for me tonight and rocked my world. I should be blowing up her phone with apologies right now.
To Tucker, I manage a quick nod.
“I never took you for a coward.”
“I’m not usually one,” I say gruffly.
Tucker grabs a small blue cloth from the end table and wipes the corner of Jamie’s mouth, where a bit of milk has drizzled out. He gazes at her with so much love that I actually feel a spark of envy. I wonder what it’s like to love somebody that much.
“I don’t know how to handle this, Tuck. Summer wants to talk—about ‘us,’ I’m assuming—and I have no clue what to say to her.”
A crease appears in his forehead. “You don’t know how to let her down, you mean? Are you saying you don’t want to be with her?”
My teeth dig into my cheek. “Not sure about that, either. She’s just… She’s too much, man.”
“Too much,” he repeats. “What does that mean?”
“She’s too everything.” A helpless sensation tightens my throat. “She’s too beautiful. She’s got too much energy. She’s too open.” I let out a groan. “Everybody is drawn to her. Everybody. She walks into a room and all eyes instantly home in on her, and not simply because she’s hot. Summer’s one of those girls, the high-profile ones who attract attention. She can’t help it. It’s her orbit—you get sucked into it.”
“And that’s bad because?”
Because I’ve never been so drawn to anyone and it kind of scares the shit out of me.
“Because I don’t want to be a high-profile guy,” I say instead. Tuck wouldn’t understand this fear I have about Summer. Emotions don’t scare him. He knew he wanted to be with Sabrina from the second he met her, and his certainty that they belonged together and relentless pursuit to win her heart were damn near incomprehensible to me.
“Being with someone like her means putting myself in the spotlight. And there’ll always be some kind of drama. The other night she started a bar fight,” I grumble. “Summer doesn’t know the meaning of the word low-key. Everything she does is over the top, flashy, extravagant. That’s not me.”
“No,” he agrees, before offering a dry smile. “But letting a chick go down on you in the locker room isn’t typical of you either, so… You must like her a helluva lot if you took that kind of risk tonight.”
He’s right. Stifling a groan, I drop my head in my hands for a long, torturous moment. “I’m in her orbit, man,” I mumble into my palms.
He chuckles. “So whatcha gonna do about it?”
I lift my head. “I have no fucking idea.”
21
Summer
So I guess nobody talks about oral sex anymore? We just perform it on each other and hand out orgasms willy-nilly and it never gets discussed again? Is this the world we’re living in? If so, I’m going off the grid. I’ll build a shack in the middle of the woods where there isn’t a penis in sight.
Forest animals have penises, Summer.
“Oh, shut up, Selena,” I mumble. “I love you, but I don’t need this today.”
My row-mate Ben glances at me, sighs, and then returns his gaze to the front of the lecture hall. He’s grown accustomed to my cat-lady ramblings. I’m not certain if that’s a good thing or a bad one.
It’s been two days since the locker room incident, and Fitz has been completely MIA. Gone in the afternoons (holed up in the painting studio, according to Hollis), hasn’t had dinner (or any meals, for that matter) at home, and both nights he’s come back around midnight and proclaimed to be SO TIRED when I tried to talk to him.
You know what I have to say to that?
Fuck you very much, Colin Fitzgerald. That’s the last time his dumb penis goes anywhere near my sacred mouth. A girl’s got to have standards.
Brenna echoes that sentiment when I text her after class with a Fitz update.
ME: Still no mention of the BJ. Last nite he said he had a migraine and locked himself in his room. This morning he left for practice at 5am. Snuck out like a thief in the night
* * *
BRENNA: Men are garbage
* * *
ME: They’re pure trash
* * *
BRENNA: Trash garbage
I send her the poop emoji, because I can’t find a garbage-bag emoji and poop is an adequate alternative.
BRENNA: All seriousness--I’m sorry, GB. Never thought Fitz was trash garbage, but people are full of surprises
* * *
ME: So are Dumpsters
* * *
BRENNA: lolololololol
I grin to myself as I slide my phone into my tote. The Prada bag smells like delicious new leather, a scent that never fails to cheer me up. It showed up on my doorstep yesterday morning courtesy of UPS and Nana Celeste. I swear that woman can sense whenever her grandbabies are upset. It’s like she possesses internal radar that shouts “Quick! Call Prada!” if one of the grandkids so much as gets a paper cut.