Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“This is not the time for your babbling, ginger. I’m about to plummet to my death.”
Good point.
Sighing, I help him up, and a moment later he tumbles onto my floor. When he’s standing, he runs both hands through his tousled blond hair to push it away from his face. He smooths out his T-shirt, which is rumpled from his climb, then fixes the waistband of his gray sweatpants. I notice he’s barefoot and hope he didn’t scratch his feet going up that lattice.
“To answer your question,” he says, visibly frazzled, “I didn’t use the front door because I was afraid I’d have to meet your mother, and I’m not her biggest fan right now.”
I freeze. “Why do you say that?”
“I was outside having a smoke when you got home and—”
“You smoke?” I demand. “How come I didn’t know—” I stop myself, because that is not the thing to focus on right now. “You heard us?”
He nods.
Oh God.
My eyes start to sting again. And now I feel like throwing up too, because the hottest guy in the world heard my mother disparage my body, insinuate I’m a slut, and encourage me to get a breast reduction.
I blink rapidly. Mortified.
Tate doesn’t miss the way I hastily rub underneath my eyes with the pad of my thumb.
“No,” he begs. “Please don’t cry again.”
Again?
He saw me crying?
I might actually be sick. I take a few breaths, attempting to keep the nausea at bay. My knees go weak, so I sink onto the edge of my bed, but because I’m wearing my bimbo crop top, it creates an inevitable roll in my stomach. Normally I wouldn’t care about that—everyone gets it when they sit down—but after my mother’s callous assessment of my figure, I’m now feeling extra self-conscious.
I shoot back up. “Look,” I start, then trail off. I don’t even know what to say. I draw another deep breath and opt for honesty. “I feel like throwing up knowing you heard all that.”
His jaw ticks, as if he’s clenching and unclenching his teeth. “You realize none of it’s true, right? It was all bullshit. I almost stormed over there and gave her a piece of my mind. Does she always talk to you like that?”
“Pretty much. But she tries to disguise it as helpful advice, so most of her criticism falls under the I just want you to look your best umbrella.” I shrug. “She’s called me a lot of things over the years, but a bimbo? That’s new. It’s also extremely outdated, but I suppose bimbo is her generation’s slut? And I guess I prefer bimbo to slut. It’s more fun to say. Bim-bo.”
“Stop it, Cass. It’s not a joke.”
I crack a half smile. “It is kind of funny.”
Tate isn’t amused. “Have you told her you don’t like it when she says that shit?”
“I used to,” I admit. “When I was younger. But it doesn’t register. People like her only hear what they want to hear. Like I told you before, I eventually just gave up on …”
“Saying how you feel,” he finishes, then shakes his head in disapproval. “You should never stop telling people how they make you feel.”
“Doesn’t make a difference, Tate. She’ll never accept she did anything wrong, and she’ll never apologize. That’s not who my mother is.” I smile sadly.
“You don’t do it for an apology. You do it for yourself. Because when you don’t release those dark emotions, you end up bottling them up. You let them consume you from the inside out until you’re running upstairs in tears believing you’re unworthy or unattractive or whatever other false ideas she planted in your mind—when in reality, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking met.”
My smile falters. “Okay, you’re laying it on thick to make me feel better. I appreciate it, but—”
“You are. Christ. Just look at you.”
He gestures toward me, his earnest gaze taking in the outfit I’d chosen for my boardwalk dinner with Joy. A wrap skirt, a burnt orange color, that swishes around my knees. The tight black top that shows off my abs-free but still decent (or so I thought) midriff. I left the house believing I looked nice, but now all I hear is my mother’s voice in my head talking about girls with perfect abs and how big boobs will only ever look trashy. Never sexy.
“You’re goddamn perfect, Cassie.”
“Now you’re just bullshitting.” I start to turn away.
“I’m not.” He grabs my hand, tugging me closer. “You didn’t know I was listening earlier, right? Well, I could’ve gone inside and you would’ve been none the wiser. I didn’t have to scale a tower tonight and stumble in through your window just to tell you how hot you look. Why would I do that, or say that, if I didn’t mean it?”
Another good point. But … I still think he’s bullshitting.