Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 129986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
While I’m driving home, the horror and humiliation wash over me again and again. I get a couple of messages. One from Hannah that just says, “Oh my god, are you okay??” Another from Janie that says, “Did you really send that picture to Chase Darington?”
I don’t answer since I’m driving, but when I finally pull in, I don’t answer, either. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Well, no, that’s not true.
I sniffle, angrily swiping a tear away from my puffy eyes and grab my phone out of the cup holder. Finding the message chain between me and Dare, I type, “WHAT THE FUCK?”
I push send, sniffle again, then debate what else to say. There’s so much, I don’t even know where to begin.
I have no clue where he stands on all this.
It’s hard to imagine I wouldn’t have heard from him right away if he saw the post and was somehow surprised by it. It’s hard to imagine how that could even be. How would she have gotten the picture if he didn’t give it to her?
And when did she shoot that video? I only sent him the picture Friday night.
Then again, it was late, and he was at her house.
Did he spend the night?
That sick feeling intensifies. I’m almost afraid of him texting me back. I don’t know what he’ll say, if it will be something that cripples me. I don’t know if we’ll ever talk again after this.
I don’t know if we should.
He was a complete asshole that first night. What if that was the real him all along? What if he only started being nice to me to get something incriminating for his girlfriend to humiliate me with?
That’s too horrifying to imagine.
Especially because it worked.
I want to block his number and never talk to him again. Maybe I wouldn’t get my answers, but at least I wouldn’t have to risk finding out the guy I was starting to like was a mirage and I’ve been alone all along.
I can’t do that, though.
I have no clue what’s going on with Mom’s appointment with that specialist, and if somehow this isn’t as bad as it seems to be, I still need to ask him about it.
“How could you show her that picture?” I type. “I trusted you.”
Whether he’s been playing me or not, that’s the truth.
I sit there for a few minutes staring at the screen, hoping I’ll see the three little bubbles that mean he’s texting me back while dreading it at the same time.
Dare doesn’t have read receipts on, so I can’t tell if he has seen my messages or not.
Ugh, I hate that.
I don’t really want to go in the house because Mom will want to know what’s wrong and why I left school, but I can’t sit out here in the car all day, either.
While I’m waiting to see if he responds, my gaze catches on something blue in the yard. It looks like a stray piece of litter. I open the door and go over to clean it up, but when I do, I find three more just like it scattered across the lawn.
What the hell?
I look around to see if there are any others, and my gaze catches on the porch. It’s littered with messy stacks of pamphlets, like someone took a huge bucket of them and dumped them all over my porch.
I look down at the ones in my hand, identical to the ones on the porch, and that’s when it hits me what the pamphlet is for.
A funeral home.
My hand curls into a fist, crumpling the pamphlet. I look toward the door and the flower delivery from yesterday flashes to mind.
My first thought is who would be malicious enough to send me shit like this, but it doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to connect those dots.
Furious, I gather up as many pamphlets as I can carry and haul them to the trash. They’re so scattered I have to make three trips before I get all of them.
Once the yard is clean, I look around to make sure there are no stragglers. The last thing I need is for Mom to find one of these next time she’s outside.
That fucking bitch.
I hate Anae Richards so much, I could explode.
I go back to the car to retrieve the books I had on me and the basket from Hannah. I grab my phone, and when it lights up, I see Dare finally texted me back.
Twice.
The first message just says, “What are you talking about?”
The second says. “Fuck. I didn’t give her that picture.”
“Then how did she get it?” I demand.
“I don’t know. She had to have gone through my phone.”
“You don’t have a pass code?”
“She knows it.”
That settles in my gut like a rock. It’s the most Anae has ever felt like his girlfriend, and her actually feeling like his girlfriend makes what he’s been doing with me feel a lot ickier.