Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
ME: I know. I was basically joking.
HIM: Basically?
ME: 60/40 joking.
HIM: So 40% of you wants to get with this?
ME: Get with what?
HIM: With me. You want to get all up in my dick biz.
Laughter sputters out of my mouth. Suddenly I don’t feel so disappointed anymore.
ME: If you say so. Anyway, pointless discussion. Like you said, you’re out of commission.
I put the phone down and slide into a sitting position. Interacting with Hunter never fails to cheer me up. I’m still grinning, and my appetite has officially returned. Luckily, there’s a feast downstairs with my name on it.
It isn’t until much later, nearly midnight, that I hear from Hunter again. I’m just getting into bed when the message lights up my phone.
HUNTER: If I wasn’t, I’d be all over you, Demi.
19
Demi
I feel surprisingly refreshed after Thanksgiving weekend. It was nice to see all my cousins and my crazy family, and Dad eventually did calm down about the Nico situation. He said he was sorry for not acknowledging my feelings, and I accepted his apology. Then he spent nearly an hour trying to badger me into hiring an MCATs tutor for next semester, until finally I flat-out told him I wasn’t interested in even thinking about that exam until next year. He didn’t like that idea one bit. So I appeased him by saying I’d take another science class over the summer to free up next year’s schedule for med school studying. That idea, he loved.
I get it, I really do. My dad had a tough upbringing. He grew up dirt poor in Atlanta and worked his ass off to climb out of the gutter. Because he’s genius-level smart, he excelled in high school, graduated early and got a scholarship to Yale. That’s when he met and married my mother, who was originally from Miami. She wanted to move back after graduation, so Dad went with her, working at Miami General for nearly two decades before we moved to Massachusetts.
Dad’s intense drive and unparalleled work ethic got him to where he is now, and he’s instilled in me the value of hard work since the day I was born. When I was a teenager, he insisted I do volunteer work and community outreach so I could see how many people go without the privilege I was born into. He wanted me to understand how blessed I am. And I do understand, absolutely.
But the pressure of living up to my father’s high standards can be exhausting.
And although Dad didn’t bring up the Nico subject again this weekend, that didn’t stop him from dropping several subtle comments over the weekend about how people are flawed, how human beings make mistakes. It was never specifically about Nico, but I knew exactly what Dad was trying to imply.
Well, too bad. Dad will just have to get over it. His boner for my ex-boyfriend will eventually deflate and hopefully get hard again for whoever I date next—and if that isn’t the grossest analogy I’ve ever used, then I don’t know what is. I don’t want to think about my father getting hard over anyone. I don’t want my father to have a penis, period.
As for the rebound idea I floated with Hunter via text, I’m finding myself more and more open to the idea. In fact, I’m kind of excited about it as I walk to class on Monday morning.
I’m wearing a parka with a fur-lined hood, an oversized messenger bag over one shoulder, fur-lined boots, and holding a steaming coffee cup in my hand.
You know that saying—dress for the job you want? Well, I dress for the season I want. It’s the end of November and it still hasn’t snowed, and I’m growing tired of this weird in-between period where there are no leaves on the trees but no snow on the ground. It’s eerie and I hate it.
Pax, TJ and I chat about our Thanksgivings until Professor Andrews arrives. Hunter texted early this morning that he wouldn’t be in class today. Apparently he has a physical with the team doctor.
I see him later that night, though, when he comes over for our—sob—final therapy session. My session logs are filled with notes. Hunter’s done with all his research. Now it’s just a matter of him writing the technical paper, and me writing the case study and detailed diagnosis, but those aren’t due for a few more weeks.
“Since we’re officially done, am I allowed to tell you your diagnosis?” I ask him.
“Hit me,” Hunter says with a grin. He’s sprawled on the loveseat, his hands propped behind his head, his arms bare. He runs hot, according to him, so every time he’s in my room he strips down to a wife-beater or T-shirt, showing off those sculpted arms.
“Congratulations, you suffer from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, with a hint of antisocial PD.”