Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Sadly enough, Whitney didn’t allow me to bring a novel to said party because I was on a mission to be social. She even stole my headphones so I couldn’t sneakily listen to my audiobooks. I was told to engage with others instead of being my regular hermit crab. Still, I didn’t know how to speak to those in that house. My hands kept rubbing up and down my arms as I took in my surroundings.
The number of alcohol bottles littering the tables and countertops of the kitchen amazed me. Along with those were a few kegs of beer and two massive coolers with what people were calling “magic punch.” I’d never seen so much booze in my life. Music blared through the space, creating a slight ring in my ears as people gathered around, laughing and chatting. A handful of men flirted in corners with women, and many make-out sessions were going on, too.
Whitney came back over and handed me a red Solo cup. “Here you go, drink this,” she urged. “It’s the magic punch.”
I sniffed the drink, and my nose scrunched up. “What exactly is magic punch?”
She shrugged as she took a big chug of hers. “That’s the magic part of it all—no one knows. But rumor has it that by the end of your second cup, you’ll be on your way to Hogwarts.”
“Splendid.” I semi-chuckled.
She held her cup in the air toward me. “A toast. To the birthday girl. May tonight be a night she’s never experienced, filled with fun, laughter, and hot-hot guys!”
“Hear, hear!” I cheered, tapping my cup with hers before I took a sip. The second I tasted it, I spit it out. “Oh my gosh, what is that? Rubbing alcohol?”
“Look at that. Your first sip of alcohol.” Whitney smiled widely and placed her hand over her heart. “My little girl is growing up.”
“Yeah, look at me. I’m living, and I’m vibing. I’m doing the thing,” I said, trying to act cooler than ever. “John was wrong when he called me Cheerios.”
She arched an eyebrow. “He called you Cheerios?”
“Yeah.” As I thought about his words, my eyes began to wash over with tears. “Because I’m boring and basic!”
“Oh my gosh, what a dick. Screw him. He’s a lying jerk who didn’t deserve you.”
“You’re right,” I said, leaning against the kitchen counter. As soon as I felt its stickiness, I leaned forward. I was already daydreaming about my steamy shower once I made it home. “This is the perfect time to prove John wrong. I’m not boring. I’m fun! I’m wild. I can be just like Meredith.”
“Who’s Meredith?”
“The blow job girl.”
“Oh. Screw her, too!” Whitney remarked. “The jerk.”
I frowned. “I don’t know if she’s a jerk. I don’t know if she knew he was in a relationship because sometimes guys lie, and the other girl might not have known she was a home-wrecker. And can a woman wreck a home, or was the home already wrecked before she arrived? Sigmund Freud once said—”
Whitney grimaced and placed a hand against my shoulders. “Sweetie, please don’t tell me you’re about to quote philosophers because that would be a buzzkill for me. You can’t be that kind of drunk tonight, okay?”
“What kind of drunk am I supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. The kind of drunk who dances on tables, gets wild in a good way, and makes out with a stranger. Just not Freud quoters.”
“Right. You know, I wasn’t even going to quote Freud. That was me being in a silly, goofy mood.”
“Star.”
“Yes?”
“You’re my best friend, my roommate, my ride or die, so believe me when I say I know you were about to quote Freud.”
Fair.
He was fascinating, though, and had great thoughts.
“I do think it’s nice that you aren’t shaming the girl, though. That’s very kind of you,” Whitney pointed out. “I’d hate both of them.”
“What can I say? I’m a girl’s girl.” I sighed, thinking about what had taken place not that long ago.
I still couldn’t get the image out of my head of walking into John’s room. Dad told me that John wasn’t the right one for me. His reason? He had terrible tattoos. My father owned one of Chicago's most famous tattoo parlors and judged people based on their ink—maybe not all people, but John, nonetheless.
“I’m going to dance on tables and find someone to make out with,” I told Whitney, puffing my chest out. I wasn’t going to let that boy ruin my birthday. I’d just turned twenty-one, and the last thing I wanted was for John to mess up what was supposed to be a very exciting night for me.
“Good! I want to hear that because it’s your birthday, and we will not let little pecker John ruin it!”
“John’s pecker isn’t little.” I sighed.
“How many peckers have you seen before, live in action?”