Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Harlow frowns, while Evie sighs and whispers, “She’s been like this since I got home from class. Clearly something happened, but she won’t share any details. I’m getting worried.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here, I’m still here,” I squeak before releasing another high-pitched keening sound that scares me so much, I silence it with another spoonful of mint chocolate chip shoved into my face.
Harlow drops her backpack and purse on the ground in the hall and comes to crouch beside me, resting a gentle hand on my back. “We know you’re still here. Obviously, you are. Evie’s just worried and so am I. So, why don’t you come sit at the table with us, babes? I’ll get you some water and tissues and we can hash this out together and come up with a solution.”
I shake my head and cringe closer to the floor. “There is no solution. Everything is awful and horrible and wrong and I’m never going to trust anyone ever again.”
“I know it feels that way, but that’s because your heart is broken, and broken hearts make it really hard to think clearly.” She smooths my hair from my forehead just like my mom used to do when I was a kid with a fever. “That’s why you need your friends to help you figure things out. Come on. Evie and I may not be the most experienced people, but we know a thing or two about love and we both love you.”
“Very much,” Evie says, a quiver in her voice that makes me glance up, catching her shining gaze through the archway. Great, now I’m making my best friends cry. Tears are like the fucking plague, and I’m patient zero. “Let us at least try to help?” Evie adds, threading her fingers together in a pleading fist. “Pretty please with big hugs on top?”
Sniffing, I nod. “Okay.” I start to stand, but pause, clutching my ice cream to my chest in a hunched half squat. “But I’m bringing the ice cream. I’m going to eat the entire carton. And when I’m done, if I want more, I’ll order another pint from the place that delivers. I don’t care if I overdose on sugar and go into a coma. A coma would be a nice break from the shit show at this point.”
“I agree,” Harlow says, helping me the rest of the way up and keeping an arm around my shoulders as we move out of the kitchen and into the main room. “I’ve often thought that a coma could be a good thing. I’d get to catch up on sleep, give that tweaked muscle in my hip time to heal, and lose ten pounds from the feeding tube diet.”
“You don’t need to lose ten pounds,” I say before adding in a high-pitched wail, “You’re beautiful and tall and perfect. Just like Erica.”
“Thank you,” Harlow says, settling me into a chair, “but who the hell is Erica?”
“Oh no,” Evie whispers, dragging her chair up on my right side, before plunking down and starting to pet my thigh through my jeans. “Is Erica the other woman? Is Sam a dirty, two-timing cheater?”
Harlow growls as she drops into the chair on my other side. “Fuck, I was afraid of this. People who were awkward as children and become hot later in life can’t be trusted. They look amazing on the outside, but on the inside, they’re still that ugly duckling who craves validation from shiny new members of the opposite sex.”
I shake my head. “He wasn’t an ugly duckling. He was always cute, just in a different way.”
“Okay, if you say so,” Harlow says, agreeing way more easily than she usually would. Probably because I’m a hot, snotty mess and she wants the drama to be over as soon as possible. Harlow is like me—she prefers moderate feelings in moderation voiced in a calm tone. “But trust me, it’s a thing. I went through it my freshman year of college. Being hot was a shiny new toy that boosted my formerly fugly, pimple-covered self-esteem. I couldn’t stop playing with it, even when I met a nice guy who was perfect boyfriend material. I couldn’t, wouldn’t settle down. It was like I was afraid I’d lose my cuteness and forget how to flirt if I stopped kissing strangers at parties. Chances are, it’s the same with Sam. It’s not that you’re not the best. It’s not about you at all. It’s about him being caught between his new outsides and his insecure insides.”
I accept the tissue Evie presses into my hand, mopping at my face as I will myself to pull it together enough to get the story out. The sooner I spill, the sooner this will be over, and I can go back to crying on the floor by the beautiful new washer-dryer the liar had installed in my apartment as a surprise and now permanent reminder of my tragic naivete. (Because I’m not sending it back. I will suffer the pain of a broken heart in the name of being able to do my laundry while watching Drag Race reruns.)