Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
You could tell him.
Dax is loyal. If he knew why you hated her, he’d back off and be supportive.
That’s not happening.
“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Pederson says after the longest five minutes of my entire goddamn life. “Now that you’re acquainted with your partner, I’ll get into the specifics of the project. Then I’ll lecture a bit before you all are free to get going for the day. Don’t get used to it, though.”
When I glance back over at Gemma, she’s sitting ramrod straight with her notebook opened in front of her and a purple pen in her raven-claw grip. With swooping, graceful strokes, she begins to take notes. I watch her make sense of Mr. Pederson’s words and convert them to girly art in her notebook.
Everything Mr. Pederson yaps about is common knowledge in my opinion. Considering I grew up exposed to the subject of Historical Preservation and Urban Design, it’s not necessary for me to pay attention.
Right now, I’m more focused on learning about her.
Gemma Golden Park.
Her last name was always irrelevant to me until now because I had no desire to ever track her down. There’s a reason why I never went out looking for the mysterious Gemma—the little girl who claimed my bedroom before I did, before she was even born. Hating a name is easier than hating a person. Seeing her in the flesh and experiencing her utter perfection firsthand is a sucker punch to my gut. I’d wanted to avoid this feeling at all cost. I’m dizzied and nauseous. Painful memories assault me from every direction.
I hated who I became after I found that picture and read that letter.
I became exactly as my nickname suggested. Second best. An afterthought. Leftovers.
I’ve been struggling ever since to shed that cloak of shame and hurt, but no matter how hard I try—no matter how much medication and therapy I’m on—I’m never able to shake it off.
It clings to me like a second skin.
The only time I’m not obsessing over it is when I’m lost in my projects—my only real time to be happy.
I’m a grown-ass adult now. Maybe I should move out. Living in the same room I discovered belonged to someone else for over a decade can’t be good for my mind. It’s a constant reminder.
But where would I live?
Alone?
The thought of being by myself, away from my dads, makes my gut clench. Despite being their second, they were always my first. I loved—still love them—with my entire soul.
Who knew I’d be eating depression with a side of despair for breakfast this morning?
My mind reels as Mr. Pederson drones on. Maybe talking to a new therapist will be good for me. Maybe this new guy can teach me how to shove all the pain back into that wretched trunk in Dad’s closet.
How freeing would that be?
Time flies by and the next thing I know, everyone around me is getting up to leave. Gemma doesn’t move. I jerk my head her way to find her staring at me, a slight frown on her pink lips.
“What?”
“You didn’t take one single note. I don’t think you were paying attention at all.” She sighs, resignation in her voice. “What’s your number? I’ll text you a picture of my notes. We’re going to need to be able to contact each other for this project anyway.”
She wants my number?
Would Dax leave her alone if he knew we exchanged numbers?
That certainly would help me avoid telling him why I despise her.
I pluck her sleek phone from her grip and find the contacts. I enter in “Tristan” because giving her the satisfaction of seeing Two on there boils my blood. Once I shoot a test text, I drop her phone onto her desk with a loud clank.
“You’re welcome,” she grumbles, snatching her phone from the desk. “I’ll send it later.”
She gathers the rest of her things and then bolts from the classroom. As other students begin entering for the next class, I open my phone and look at the text I sent from her phone. Once I save her as “Golden,” I shove my phone into my pocket and grab my bag.
“Your syllabus is on the floor, Mr. Sheridan,” Mr. Pederson remarks with a heavy sigh. “We’re barely one day in and you’re already scattered. Looks like I paired you up with someone who might keep you in line.”
I curl my lip up in disgust as I bend to grab the paper that now has someone’s dirty shoe print on it and cram it into my bag. “It’s a mistake, Mr. P.”
“You say mistake. I say serendipity.”
Giving him a curt wave, I stalk out of his room and out of the building. As I near the parking lot, I receive another text.
Dad: Can you do 11 since you have a break between classes? I’ll send you a pin of the location.