Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
And I wouldn’t take it for granted.
“They gave me this funny card game called Exploding Kittens too,” I say. “Let me put the pasta on the tree, and then we can pour some whiskey shots and check that out. Unless you want to go to bed. I can totally explode kittens on my own. Wait. That sounded wrong. I wouldn’t do it for real. Ever. I love kittens. This is like, a satire game. At least, I think it is. Zeus doesn’t strike me as the kitten-hating type.”
Trevor stares at me, and I can’t even begin to guess what he’s thinking.
But he blinks once, turns, and disappears into the kitchen.
His bedroom’s off the kitchen.
I sigh.
He’s probably done with me and is heading to bed, and all of these little subliminal messages I’ve been reading into the past few weeks that say that he likes me are nothing more than my fanciful imagination.
My mom says I’m a lot sometimes.
She also says I should never apologize for that, and that it’s a superpower, especially when it comes to relationships. She says it means when people stick with me, they are seriously with me, and I can count on them.
I’ve always thought that was a compliment, like way to go, Meg! You have magic people-weeding skills, but really, it’s meant I’ve had times when I’ve been super lonely.
Like now.
When I wonder if my family is intentionally skipping Christmas so they don’t have to do it the Meg-magnified way.
Trevor strolls back into the living room with a bag of—oh my god.
“Is that Baby Ash pasta?” I squeal, and then I hear myself, and then I remember that he probably doesn’t want the reminder of the adorable new mascot of the team he just left behind.
But that pasta bag has the Copper Valley Fireballs mascots on it.
He nods. “It’s all the mascots pasta.”
I stifle another squeal of excitement, but I can’t make my mouth shut up. “Don’t tell Jude, but I was totally cheering for you and the Fireballs the last two years. The way you guys turned the team around and went from the worst to the best? It’s like a fairy tale. I know it sucks that you can’t play anymore, but oh my god, Trevor, you’re a legend. You know that, right?”
His blue eyes waver as he studies me.
“I mean that in a good way,” I whisper. “Not in a you’re done way. There’s still so much you can do. I saw Cooper Rock on The Late Show the other night and he was talking about how you were always such a great leader on the team, and how much he hopes you come back and work for the team with player development.”
“Cooper never says a bad word about anyone.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s wrong. If anything, it means he’s extra right, because he takes the time to pay attention to everyone’s superpowers. Also, Jude says the same thing. That you’d be the best coach to ever—”
I cut myself off as he stares at me, his lids lowering, his mouth setting in a grim line. “I don’t want to coach, Meg. Stop trying to solve my problems.”
He shoves the mascot pasta at me, and this time, when he leaves the room, I get the feeling he’s not coming back.
And sure enough, there’s the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut.
Nice, Meg.
Also, he doesn’t like you.
And if he did—well.
I know how to kill a mood, don’t I?
TREVOR
Meg’s at it again.
She’s playing Christmas music, humming along, and my house smells like sweets. It’s all subtle—I can’t see her, because I’m still being a lazy-ass and haven’t gotten up yet, but I can hear her, and I can smell her, and I can see a rotating glow of colored lights from the crack under my door.
It’s not all that different from the dreams that plagued me all night, with one singular exception.
In my dreams, Meg was doing all of this naked, and I couldn’t keep my hands off her.
And yeah, hello, morning wood. It is not nice to see you. We do not get to think about our best friend’s sister, we do not get to dream about our best friend’s sister, and we do not rub one out while imagining it’s her hands all over us.
What we do get to do, though, is get the fuck over ourselves.
We’ve known and abided by these rules for years, and we are not going to change that now.
I wince through warming up my shoulder enough to comfortably roll out of bed, check my phone, and instantly feel my heart drop.
I texted Jude last night.
Fuck.
I texted Jude last night.
That was not part of my dream.
But I did.
I texted him a confession that I had to walk away from his sister last night before I kissed the ever-loving hell out of her.