Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“Eight thirty.”
I gasp. “Are you serious?”
Crap. Crap. Our final exam for pathophysiology and pharmacotherapeutics (two words I never knew existed before I started this nursing program) is in thirty minutes. I don’t even have time to shower, damn it.
“Why didn’t you wake me earlier?” I ask my roommate.
She wrinkles her forehead. “I did. You said I’m up! And then kept reading.”
I did? Great. Some people sleepwalk. I, apparently, sleep study. Except…oh God, I can’t remember a word of that textbook. Same with all the notes I took at the lectures. Panic coats my throat as I struggle to recall even a shred of information from my study sessions. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. I’m going to fail this final.
Violet is oblivious to my internal anxiety attack. “You should get dressed,” she informs me.
No shit. I fly around the room snatching up pieces of clothing, then strip out of yesterday’s wrinkled jeans and sweater while Violet leans against the door, watching me.
“Are you leaving now, or do you want to wait so we can walk to class together?”
“I can wait,” she says graciously.
I yank a pair of clean yoga pants up my legs. Ugh. I can’t believe I fell asleep in jeans. I have red lines all over my thighs from where the denim dug into my skin all night.
“You want me to quiz you while you get ready?” she asks.
If it had come from anyone else, the offer might have been construed as considerate. But there’s a hint of smugness in Violet’s tone. Sure, we’ve been getting along better since the icebreaker at Sticks & Stones, but that doesn’t change the fact that Violet is super competitive. She crows every time she does better than me on a quiz, gloats whenever our clinical instructors give her any praise, and constantly makes sure to remind me that she’s at the top of our class.
I’m nowhere near the top. I’m not at the bottom either. More like middle of the pack, which is a frustrating place to be. I’m killing it in the practical stuff (I secretly do some gloating of my own every time our instructor tells me how wonderful I am with patients), but the academic part is more difficult than I’d expected. Of course, that’s the part that Violet excels in, and she never lets me forget it.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I answer as I slip into a V-neck T-shirt. “I don’t like to go over the material right before a test. It clouds up my brain.”
She shrugs. “Cool. I don’t need any last-minute prep either. I had that textbook memorized before school even started.”
Of course she did.
I duck into the common bathroom on our floor, Violet trailing behind me. After some hurried teeth and hair brushing, I shove a stick of deodorant underneath my shirt and swipe it over my underarms, then zip up my toiletry case.
Five minutes later, Violet and I have grabbed coffees from the stand in our lobby and are making our way across campus. My insides churn with every step I take. I’m so fucking nervous, and chugging half a cup of coffee on an empty stomach isn’t helping to ease those nerves.
The way this program is set up, most of our courses are on a pass/fail basis. This one is the exception—a score of seventy percent or higher is required in order to pass the course. This is the grade they’ll be checking when they review the status of my scholarship.
The good thing is I’ve already passed all my other classes, so this is my last final. But I can’t afford to do poorly this morning. I have to kick this final’s ass.
“So what’s the deal with you and Blake Riley? Did you break up?”
Violet’s curious question jerks me out of my panic spiral. “What? No. I mean, we weren’t going out in the first place.”
“But you went to that charity thing with him last week. There were pictures all over the internet of the two of you dancing.”
Were there? In all honesty, I’ve been in a study bubble for the past ten days. Blake hasn’t even crossed my mind. Nobody has. In fact, last night I got a text from Jamie that simply said: You alive?
I messaged back: Studying. Leave me alone. And that’s pretty much the only contact I’ve had with the outside world since the Broken Paws benefit.
“You of all people should know that I’ve been married to my desk this week,” I remind Violet. “I haven’t had time to see anyone.”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t texted you at all,” she points out. “Before the charity party, he was texting you all the time.”
My brow furrows because one, she’s been monitoring my text messages? And two, she’s right. It’s been a while since Blake sent me one of his randomly absurd texts. Or his deliciously filthy sexts.