Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Their jobs at the Davidson manor came as a blessing.
My reckless lie could’ve ruined all that.
But nothing happened.
No one found out about what I did, and I knew it was because of him.
Because he never told on me.
He kept my secret, didn’t he?
He didn’t have to but he did.
And I’m not going to repay that by gossiping about him.
So whenever they talk and speculate, all I do is be quiet and simply listen. And well, listen carefully.
Which is how I know that he’s back.
After a whole entire year, he’s back from Connecticut for a few days. And that’s why I’m here.
Wandering in the same woods.
Coincidentally, also on the same day as last year, while another party goes on in the back yard.
Again, this one’s in honor of Homer Davidson; his parents throw a lot of parties for him. His parents throw a lot of parties in general but again, that’s not the point.
The point is that I know this is crazy. What I’m doing doesn’t make sense.
There’s no logic to it.
There’s no guarantee that I’m going to run into him again.
But I…
I had to do something; he’s here.
I mean, I have to see him.
I just have to.
“Looking for me?”
At the voice coming from behind me, my heart jumps in my chest.
And I spin around.
And I… God, he’s bigger.
Than he was the last time I saw him.
He’s taller. Broader. And he was already plenty tall and broad from what I remember.
Those shoulders of his — the ones that were already bigger than the shoulders of any other guy I know — now look like they can span the door of my bedroom. His chest looks like it can block off the view of the woods and the manor from my window.
Not to mention, it looks like he can so easily tower over the canopy bed that I sleep in.
He can so easily tower over me.
Plus he still looks like my favorite season.
Despite the fact that he still has dark clothes on.
He still looks like the end of June with his bronzed skin and that long dark surfer’s hair.
“You done staring, Bubblegum?”
My eyes shoot up to his and since his words are a repetition of what he said to me a year ago, my words are too. “I wasn’t… staring.”
His lips — which I now notice look fuller than last year too — stretch up into a smirk. His typical arrogant smirk that makes my already racing heart race more.
“Good,” he drawls. “Because if you were, then I’d have to tell you what I was just thinking.”
“What were you thinking?”
His eyes that I know have red hues in them stare at me something fierce before he says, “About how I wasn’t wrong and that I didn’t dream it up.”
“Dream what up?”
“You.” Then, “Or how pink you are.”
Breathless, I fist my dress. Which is pink. Again.
“It’s, uh, a special occasion,” I tell him.
“I know.”
Okay, I have a confession to make.
When my mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year and I told her a pink dress, I wasn’t ready to admit it. When I put it on tonight before I came out for my midnight stroll, I wasn’t ready to admit it then either.
But I have to now, I think.
That I did it all for him.
I wanted him to notice it, in case I ran into him again.
And now that he has, I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know what to say except, “And don’t call me that.”
“It’s either Strawberries or Bubblegum.” His eyes gleam and he slowly shakes his head. “Don’t like strawberries.”
“How about just using my name?”
The one that I’ve been hearing in his voice for the past year.
Not that I’m going to tell him that.
Because as I said, this is crazy.
All of this is crazy.
The fact that I’m here, wearing pink, and he’s here, calling me Bubblegum because I’m wearing pink, and we’re seeing each other after exactly a year.
But something occurs to me.
“You do know… As in, you do remember what my name is, don’t you?”
Because what if he doesn’t?
There’s a possibility of that, right?
Just because I’m crazy doesn’t mean he is too. And yes, from the looks of it he does seem to remember a lot of things from that night, but maybe he… forgot?
This one little thing.
My question turns his smirk into a smile. A very tiny one.
Actually it’s not even a smile per se. It’s more like a twitching of his lips.
“Yeah,” he replies, still studying me intensely.
Feeling a blush come onto my cheeks, I tuck a wayward strand back and push, “Well, what is it?”
At this, his smile widens.
As if I said something amusing.
As if me asking him whether or not he remembers my name is such a funny thing.
And you know what, despite constantly thinking about that night all year long, I’d forgotten one little thing too. I’d forgotten how angry he made me last time.