Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Especially if it’s just about the sex.” I lift my left hand to my hip so my trillion-cut diamond can glimmer at their eye levels. It’s a catty move, sure, but apparently that’s the only language these women understand.
The first one swallows, lips pressed flat like she’s about to lose the contents of her stomach. The second averts her gaze to her half-eaten bowl of broccoli cheese soup. I could have them canned if I wanted, but that’s not the person I want to be.
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to impose on your conversation.” I wave my hand. “But if you have any questions about Mr. Westcott’s personal life, I’d be happy to pass those along for you.”
The raven-haired one begins to say something, but her friend kicks her under the table. I’m not sure there’s anything either of them can say to save face. They’ve said what they’ve said, and I heard every word of it.
With that, I show myself out and return to my office to finish the rest of the day. While I don’t normally let other people’s opinions weigh on me, their words replay on a loop as I run my reports.
This arrangement isn’t about sex. At least not on paper. And neither one of us could have anticipated the animalistic magnetism that washes over us the second we’re alone lately, but those women weren’t wrong when they said he could have anyone he wants.
If he knew about my past, about the baby I gave up in exchange for an education and financial security, would he think less of me? Would he still want me? In a way, I’m repeating history, only I’ll get to keep my child this time.
The lingering slickness of his seed from this morning dampens my panties. I’m on my final week of birth control and, at the rate we’re going, we’ll be pregnant before the wedding.
I need to come clean to Trey.
I need to give him a chance to back out before it’s too late.
Forty-One
Sophie
Past
Music blasts from the other room. A couple on the sofa jam their tongues down each other’s throats like no one’s watching. In the corner, someone’s setting up beer pong.
It’s the first of November, which means my monthly stipend has been deposited into my bank account. Three thousand dollars. It’s more than I need given the fact that my room, board, books, and tuition are all covered.
I don’t bother checking my balance anymore. There’s always enough in there. More than enough. And every time I see that money, I think of him and everything I sacrificed to get here.
“You want another one?” Tennyson, a guy with wavy, sandy blond hair and bold Abercrombie looks lifts an empty bottle of Dos Equis. “Or I can make you something else? I think they have vodka and Sprite?”
“I’m good.” I lift my mango White Claw, which honestly tastes like vomit water but it’s the ‘cool’ thing to drink here. I’ve never been a follower, but since coming to Princeton, I’ve never felt so out of place, and I’ve found myself going with the flow in an attempt to stick out less.
Everyone comes from prominence here. All the girls carry designer backpacks and the guys drive Range Rovers and people talk about their family’s sail boats and vacation homes like they’re discussing the weather.
That, and I’m homesick. I FaceTime with my mom and sister almost every day. It’s not the same, but it’ll tide me over until I fly home for Thanksgiving in a few weeks.
I have a group of girlfriends. Five of us altogether. Two went to the same high school so they’re insanely close and sometimes go on boring tangents about people from their hometown, but they’re not so bad. Plus they know where all the good parties are, where the alcohol flows like water, and if you want a casual hook-up, all you have to do is eye fuck a guy from across the room until he comes over to talk to you.
Tennyson returns with a new beer and sits beside me. Our thighs touch. He takes a swig, watching me, waiting to make a move. I get the impression that I make guys nervous sometimes. One of my friends told me last month that I’m “hard to read,” whatever that means.
“So you’re from Illinois?” he asks.
“Yep …” I take a sip of my lukewarm White Claw.
“And you’re an international business major?”
“Yep …”
We met in Econ 101 at the beginning of the semester, when he chose the desk next to mine and asked to borrow a pen—never mind that he had a razor thin MacBook Air to take his notes. It was something straight out of an 80s movie. The following week, I chose a seat in the back row. He spotted me the instant he walked in and took the spot in front of me. After a while, I got used to it. And it took him months to muster up the courage to invite me to this party at his fraternity.