Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“He never gets sacked. This is unbelievable,” Kyle mutters, not having any food to prepare because all the orders are up.
The diner is typically pretty dead on the days there are games, but it’ll get horribly busy once the game is over—which is why Winnie is rolling napkins and three more servers are on their way in.
“Who never gets sacked?” Winnie asks.
“Colter.” Pause. “Did you see that? Ripley took him out. Dude never had a chance to release the ball.”
“Huh, weird. He must have a lot on his mind.”
I narrow my eyes in her direction.
Winnie is as subtle as a hippo stomping through the forest, but she means well.
“He’s lucky he’s standing. That hit was insane.”
“Are they supposed to hit a quarterback that hard?” Winnie asks the question I’m only thinking because I don’t want either of them to know I care whether Dallas gets hurt or not.
Boyfriend or not, I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.
“I mean, they’re not trying to take him out, but some of these dudes are nothing but solid muscle.”
Winnie nods, shooting me a sly look as she watches me watching the screen, my hand and dishrag pausing over the table I was wiping down.
Stop watching, Ryann.
YOU DO NOT LIKE THIS GUY ANYMORE.
“Halftime!” Kyle shouts, disappearing from the service window, getting back to the task of prepping the kitchen like he should have been doing instead of standing around watching football.
I resume wiping down tables.
Straighten menus, adjust the condiments in their metal racks.
“Holy shit,” Winnie whispers loud enough for me to hear it, and I turn to find her slowly rising from the booth. “Kyle, turn up the volume.”
I shake my head. “Winnie, we have customers.”
She shushes me, waving a hand to get me to shut up, all eyes on the television, Kyle pointing the remote toward the screen.
“…he was seen on the porch with someone who was notably not his girlfriend Ryann Winters, a junior classmate at Wisconsin. We didn’t have all the details of the story at the time, and we’re here with a retraction…”
My eyes get wide when a video begins playing.
I watch, transfixed, as Dallas stomps up his front steps.
I watch, transfixed, as Tiffany steps out from where the porch swing is, appearing on camera.
I watch, transfixed, as Dallas frowns and says whatever words he’s saying.
She steps forward. He backs up.
She leans forward, face tilted up.
Dallas moves around her, opening the front door and disappearing through it, slamming it behind him.
I watch, transfixed, as Tiffany stands on the porch, hugging herself before shrugging, staring directly into the camera.
“Oh my God,” Winnie whispers again. “Are you seeing this?”
Of course I’m seeing it, but I can hardly believe I’m seeing it.
Is this a joke?
How…
Why…
“I knew he was telling the truth!” my best friend declares triumphantly, which does nothing to calm the storm of relief racking my body.
I put a hand on the table to steady myself, my legs wobbling slightly.
“That doesn’t help me, Winnie,” I blurt out, the butterflies in my stomach beating their wings like crazy.
“Well, it should! This is what I’ve been saying all along!” She looks relieved, hand gesturing wildly toward the TV. “Thank God, too. I was starting to wonder if I was blowing smoke up your ass for no reason.”
My hand is still hovering over the table, rag still in my hand. My mouth is hanging open too; I must look like a fool staring at the television.
Then the game comes back on.
Over the sounds of football being played, the commentators break down Dallas’s performance, giving speculation on why he’s biffing it so bad.
Of course, no one uses the words ‘biffing it’, but that’s exactly what they mean.
I stand like a deer in headlights.
“Ryann?” Winnie is waving her hand around in front of my face. “Maybe you should get to the stadium before the game is over so you don’t have to fight traffic.”
I snap out of my trance. “Huh?”
“Go,” Kyle yells from the kitchen. “She said, ‘Maybe you should get to the stadium before the game is over so you don’t have to fight traffic.’”
I look at them both. “You think I should go over there? To do what?”
“I don’t know,” Winnie says honestly. “Wait for him by his truck in the parking lot? Same way you did the last time?”
The photo that ended up on the news.
“Go, you fool!” Kyle shouts, spatula in the air. “Run like the wind, Bullseye!”
Winnie shushes him. “Calm down there, buddy. She’s freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out.” I shake my head. “I’m just…”
Freaking out.
Scared.
Embarrassed.
Here we go again, I think. Letting other people make me feel a certain way when it’s within my own power to change the narrative—by making my own choices and decisions.
“I’m just… What if he doesn’t want to see me? I’ve been ignoring him for days, which—isn’t that like, ghosting?”