Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
My heart flutters at that. He has no idea how long I’d waited for him to say those words. The entire year and a half we were together, in fact. I fell for Case so fast, but I forced myself not to say it too early, afraid to scare him off. And then, when I finally uttered those three words for the first time, he didn’t say them back. Sure, he was suddenly throwing them around after he kissed someone else. But the night I said I love you, he didn’t say I love you too.
The reminder turns the fluttering of my heart into a deep sting.
“You’re skeptical,” Case says, eyeing me.
“I don’t know what I am. I…can’t give you any answers. We broke up.”
He nods slowly. Runs a hand through his golden hair, drawing my attention to the strong line of his jaw. Any girl would take one look at that perfect face and throw herself at him, tell him, Yes, of course I’ll take you back!
But I’m not so quick to let him back in. Not after everything that happened.
“Okay. I understand,” Case says after a long silence. “I’ll get out of your way then.”
Guilt trickles through me. I squeeze his hand before he can pull away.
“Hey,” I assure him. “I’m still your friend. You know if you ever need me, ever, all you have to do is call, right?”
“I know, and I’m always here for you too.” He tugs me to my feet. “C’mon, I should go. And you’ve got Whitney waiting for you.”
At the door, Case lets go of my hand and holds out his arms. I can’t resist stepping into them. Letting him wrap them around me in a hug that feels like home.
For a moment I’m tempted to tilt my head up. To let his lips come down on mine and just lose myself in his kiss.
But then I think about his lips on somebody else’s, and the urge dies.
CHAPTER FOUR
GIGI
Is it Carl?
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, I HIT THE RINK FOR A SOLO SKATE, ducking out just as the men’s team arrives for their second day of training camp. Then I manage to squeeze a run in afterward but keep it short because it’s more humid outside than I expect. On my way back to the dorms, I get a phone call from my twin, and soon I’ve got Wyatt whining in my ear about our mom, who didn’t appropriately fawn over the new song he sent her. I guess she didn’t love the arrangement, but the way he’s ranting, you’d think she told him to forsake music altogether and get a job in pharmaceutical sales.
I slow to a jog, enjoying having the campus all to myself. Once classes start on Monday, Briar will be buzzing with life. The cobblestone paths will be teeming with students and faculty, the wrought-iron benches crammed with bodies. There’ll be people sitting in the quad for as long as the weather permits. Blankets strewn on the grass while students throw Frisbees and footballs around. Even when the weather changes, the campus will still be beautiful. A blanket of snow, frost in the trees. I love every season in New England. This place is in my blood.
It’s in my brother’s blood too, and yet Wyatt has had trouble staying still his whole life. He’s always had a serious case of wanderlust. Always convincing our dad to take us on epic trips in the offseason. Surfing and zip-lining in Costa Rica. Hiking in South America. Scuba diving in the Maldives. He and Dad are super close, but (as much as he’d deny it) Wyatt’s actually a huge mama’s boy.
Which is why I laugh and cut him off midrant. “Okay, can we just stop with the fake outrage? We both know you’re going to do what she suggests in the end.”
“That’s not true,” he argues.
“Really? So you’re not going to adjust the bridge of the song then?”
“If I do change the bridge, it’ll be because I feel like I should, not because Mom said so.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Keep telling yourself that, champ.” I loudly cough out the words, “Mama’s boy.”
“I am not a mama’s boy.” The outrage is back.
“Isn’t your profile pic a photo of you and Mom?”
“Yeah, from the Grammys,” he growls. “Who wouldn’t use a picture of themselves at the Grammys?”
I wouldn’t. But that’s also because I have no interest in throwing on a fancy gown and getting my picture taken at award shows. I could’ve gone with them to the ceremony last year—Mom wrote an album for a new indie rock trio that was nominated for several Grammys—but that’s more Wyatt’s scene than mine.
“Whatever. Clearly I’m not going to get any support from my beloved sister.”
“Beloved,” I echo with a snort. “That’s rich.”
I reach the front doors of Hartford House and stop to tie a shoelace that’s come undone.