Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
He pauses. “No, but to be fair, Arnold’s still coming into himself; he’ll get there.” He points over at a kid who looks like he’s still in middle school and reading a book upside down. “He’ll come into his own, I have a feeling.”
“Oh yeah.” I nod. “I can see it; he’ll be great.”
“Hey, don’t mock Arnold.” He points a finger at me and leans in. “Sooooo, now that I’ve told you all my dirty, dirty gossip, you ready to tell me yours?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Ohhh, I’m sorry, I’ll explain… this is how friendship works. I’m here, you’re here, conversation happens, carrots are eaten, I tell you about my amazing math skills, and you tell me why Ambrose won’t even look at you anymore despite the fact that you’re living with him.”
I instantly freeze, I grip my tray like I always do and stand, but my hands won’t stop shaking. Why can’t they stop shaking?
I stumble backward, then trip over my own feet and fall onto the ground. I swear you can hear the crash around the loud cafeteria as carrots and ketchup fall all over my body, covering part of my face and uniform.
Quinn’s eyes widen.
And then just silence.
I’m brought back to the time when I first went to Ambrose’s house and felt like a freak. This is that same feeling, maybe worse because the entire school’s watching.
Slowly, I get to my feet.
Quinn holds out his hand and helps me to my feet while people murmur around us. I try to act normal as he hands me a napkin, and then I hear footsteps behind me. They’re loud.
Purposeful.
I take a deep breath.
I don’t turn around.
I don’t have to.
I know that walk.
I feel that sigh.
It’s part of me now.
He’s part of me.
Quinn grabs my hand and pulls me close to him just as a finger taps my shoulder.
Quinn’s eyes are wide.
I’m sure mine and everyone else’s mirror his… after all, Ambrose went from popular guy to god of this school. He bows to no one. He’s not just popular, not just perfect; he has the money, the looks, and the personality, to back it up.
And he’s the heir to everything.
He’s basically sitting on the Iron Throne while the rest of us rest in the dungeon, just waiting to get eaten by dragons.
Slowly, I turn.
He looks the same as always. I’ve tried to forget how beautiful his face is, just like I’ve tried to forget the taste of his mouth, but the problem with tasting perfection?
Nothing will ever compare.
I steel my expression.
“Foster Girl,” he says. It’s what he calls me now as if to draw a line in the sand that we aren’t siblings. I’m no longer family. I’m just this random interloper he never had or wanted, annoying the hell out of him.
Tears burn the back of my eyes as I whisper with trembling lips, “Random stranger I live with.”
He shoves past me and laughs. “Might need a clean uniform tomorrow after all that ketchup… never saw you as one who’d slum it with someone like Quinn, good work with that stellar reputation.”
Quinn stiffens; I can feel him.
I grab his hand.
And it’s at the same time that Ambrose turns and sees. His eyes light up with fury before he grabs my arm. “Be more careful.”
Quinn smirks. “Maybe be more polite.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” Ambrose asks.
The bell rings.
It saves us.
I jerk away and stumble into Quinn’s arms while Ambrose watches, angry, vindictive.
I wonder if it’s the worst move I could have accidentally made.
A challenge.
A wave of the red flag.
Because I’ve never seen Ambrose so angry.
And I’ve never felt so safe.
In Quinn’s arms.
Chapter Twelve
Ambrose
I hear her come into the house a few hours later. She’s trying to be quiet, and I refuse to feel bad about it even though my heart pounds in my chest. She’s always so afraid of making noise, and it makes me wonder, no matter how much I despise her now.
What caused that?
Why is noise bad?
Who hurt her?
I have so many questions.
I have zero answers.
I lay in my bed, and despite my hatred of what happened of what went down and her inability to be honest.
I wait.
I wait more.
Click. Her door opens.
Click. It closes.
Ten minutes later, it opens again.
She must be going downstairs to grab a snack like she always does because she was too nervous to eat dinner with us, or according to her, doing homework and taking a nap because she didn’t feel well, but I know the truth, she knows she isn’t wanted so she waits with her excuses every night. I jump out of bed and run down the stairs. Sure enough, she’s in the kitchen making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—her favorite.
I hate that I know that.
I watch her eat it like she hasn’t eaten in days, and the guilt comes back full force even though it shouldn’t.