Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
The entire damn school knows the answer to that.
When we started dating, Ryder and I were very much the “it” couple. We didn’t get voted homecoming king and queen – rigged for athletes –, but we were the couple others strove to be like. We were the couple that girls would use to complain to their boyfriends about when they weren’t getting enough hand holds or love notes or random single roses in their lockers. We were known throughout all the grades as “that couple” whose bond could never be broken. And then it was. Poof. No warning shots. No heads-up. Not even a hint that he was unhappy. God, even now I’m not completely sure what exactly happened. Sometimes when I lie in bed and replay his final words to me, I swear there’s something behind them, something more to them, some mystery he wanted me to solve and save him from.
Like an out-of-date Latin poem that needs a translator.
Rather than verbally answer, the freshman slyly points a few bleachers over to Ryder who’s strolling into the scene.
And to make matters worse…
He’s not alone.
My lips press together as my heart begins to speed up like it was given a shot of adrenaline straight into it. There’s a tingling on my tongue. It’s familiar yet foreign. An urge that’s stuck between want and need. I want something to fixate on that isn’t him. I need something to put in my mouth to distract my senses.
The action of turning to face Carmen is ungraceful and abrupt, “Gum. Now.”
She casually pulls a piece out of her handbag completely unbothered by my out of character command.
Once the flavor finishes cleansing my pallet and pushing my emotions back to a level where I can think clearly in actual words instead of Maya Angelou lines and Alanis Morissette lyrics, I investigate what’s causing the ache in my chest to pulse harder. “Ryder has a new girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend is a strong word for that girl,” the freshman, whose name I need to figure out and then remember, jokes.
Suzie Clarke, a junior who joined us her freshman year, leans over my shoulder and states, “That girl has slept with half the football team on our side and the opposing.”
“Bet dudes don’t remember her like they did the titans,” the freshman snidely snickers.
“Varsity damn sure never has the blues when she’s around,” Sunny Rock, another senior adds to the mocking.
I casually lean back, doing everything I can to keep my tone disinterested. “You guys know her?”
“Unfortunately, she’s in my fucking grade,” Suzie dramatically confesses like she’s a chosen guest on an episode of The Montel Williams Show.
I know I need to look away from what I can’t even work up the nerve to call a stand-in, yet I can’t. It’s like telling yourself to leave the table on a hot streak when you know you’re one hand from winning the jackpot.
Logic says stop.
Instinct says nah.
Just a little longer.
So, like I do when I play card at our family reunions for Oreos and Skittles, I push my luck.
I freely stare at someone I would’ve never guessed he’d go for.
She’s got a long in the front, short in the back bobbed hair style that emphasizes her square head. She’s got fair freckled skin that’s still sporting a deep summer tan, and has it covered in clothes that look like they’re suffocating her frame rather than hugging it in a complimentary sense.
All of that I could see past.
Kind of like the choker necklace that doesn’t go with anything she’s got on and the slightly buckteeth in need of brushing.
But the way his hand is intertwined with hers…that shit I can’t ignore.
I can’t just…dismiss so easily.
Most of the details about this unwanted anomaly – thank you SAT prep for the appropriate word – go in one ear and out the other until Suzie announces, “And she just transferred into your marketing class as of Monday.”
Another craving to clear my thoughts is instantly wanted.
Needed.
The mint flavor of the gum has already vanished, and I’m anxious for a new taste.
A new distraction.
“You two were like Brad and Jen,” Carmen starts to ramble in when she believes to be a philosophical voice. “Everyone who was everyone was rooting for you.”
“Jen is so loveable, just like you,” the freshman gushes.
“And pretty. You’re so pretty just like her,” Suzie quickly agrees.
“You’re Jen, which makes her his Angelina.”
Great.
Now, it’s a fucking war.
Now instead of the masses staring at us with jealousy jumping in their eyes, they’re watching to see what we're both really made of. Asking themselves and each other, who’s stronger? Who can get over who faster? Who’s going to save face, and who’s going to fucking lose it? An entire fucking school, hundreds of fucking people, are now watching, waiting, and speculating who has not only the better hand in this game, but the better goddamn poker face.