Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I quickly shake out my umbrella and tuck it into the pile of others by the door, and then I pull off my rain jacket and give it a shake as well. Folding it over my arm, I walk toward the double doors and sneak inside, surveying the buffet of food still out from dinner.
None of it sounds good, as my stomach is currently turning itself inside out with worry that I don’t even know who I am anymore, so I settle for a table in the corner and tuck myself away.
Scrolling on my phone, I pull up Netflix and pick out a rom-com to study. One of the first to pop up is called Anyone but You and starts with an awkward encounter in a coffee shop between Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney. It’s a cute scene full of bumbles and fumbles, and in some weird way, it makes me feel better about my propensity to overthink things.
They end up putting themselves out there and ultimately having the best night together, and I know it’s make-believe. But in some way, it renews my confidence to show up at Blake’s apartment uninvited and see where the night goes.
I grab my phone from the table and do something completely unprecedented—I initiate contact with Blake myself.
Me: What are you up to?
Blake Boden: Just hanging out at home. What about you?
Good. He’s home.
Resolved, I stop the movie and pick up my belongings, slinging my jacket back on and pulling my hair out of the collar. I tuck my phone into my pocket and push my chair into the table, rounding it and stepping out from behind the concealing shrubbery in front. There are a few more people out, but given the lower attendance of summer semester and the late hour, it still isn’t bad.
Back through the door, picking up my umbrella on the way out, I cross Broadway again. Only this time, I go straight to the door of Blake’s building as someone exits, holding the door for me as they do.
“Thanks.”
I head directly for the stairwell and the fourth floor, having memorized his apartment number and location long before giving in to the temptation to come in the first place, and make the slow climb up and through the door at the top. The hallway is long and stark white, the doors painted in an alternating pattern of blue and gold with their number placards at the sides in brushed bronze metal.
Apartment 417 is midway down the hall, on the left-hand side, and the door is navy blue. I pause briefly, setting my umbrella down beside the door and straightening my moisture-frizzed hair self-consciously before lifting a hand and knocking.
I hear a small shift in the sound inside, including Blake’s muffled voice and some shuffling, and then the door swings open to reveal his bare chest and black netted basketball shorts, his phone to his ear. He freezes at the sight of me, his eyes widening just before his whole face melts into a giant smile.
My stomach flips, and I steady my breathing against an onslaught of nerves. “Hey, Ace, I’m gonna have to call you back,” he says, which immediately seals my mouth shut with glue.
I appreciate the heads-up, and when he winks, I know he’s done it on purpose.
“Yeah, yeah. Shh, it’s okay. I’ll hug you later and you’ll feel better.” He laughs so loudly it startles me, and then he rolls his eyes. “Aw, poor baby. I’m sure you’ll find someone to hang with tonight.”
He shakes his head, stepping aside and waving me into the apartment. When I clear the threshold, he shuts the door behind me and locks it.
“Go over to Julia’s, then. She always lets you cry on her shoulder.” He snorts. “Then you should have gone to the Hamptons with her. Don’t even try to tell me she didn’t invite you.” He laughs. “Yep. That’s what I thought.” He shakes his head back and forth and mimes constant blabbing with his hand. “Okay, buddy. Just take a nice warm bath, then. We’ll talk later.”
He pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up, even though I can still hear the shrouded sound of Ace’s complaints on the other end. When I’m sure the call is over, I allow myself to laugh. “He’s a character.”
“I was going to say you have no idea, but I guess that’s stupid since you grew up around him, huh?”
I nod. “Some ridiculousnesses are hereditary. For Ace, that’s one hundred percent true. Both his parents are nutcases. If we could get them to a certified psychiatrist, I’m positive there’d be a diagnosis and commitment to a padded room.”
“So I’ve heard,” Blake agrees, clearing off his duffel bag from his cornflower-blue couch and ushering me to come sit down. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked me why I’m here yet, and it’s throwing me off a little. When I rehearsed this in my head, he started with that question.