Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
She thought I’d used our proximity to hook up with Row? That was ridiculous. My crush on Ambrose Casablancas was akin to my crush on Chris Pine. Just because it was there, didn’t mean I ever had any plans to act on it. He was the least attainable person on planet Earth, with his mood, hair, and allure all darker than the pit of his own soul.
Plus, it wasn’t like I’d planned to date him. I didn’t do boyfriends. And I definitely didn’t do relationships. Relationships were for other humans who could “people” normally and not topple over like a fainting goat at the slightest social interaction.
“Dylan!” I rushed the four steps between us, erasing them completely as I fell down to my knees at her boots. The little stones dug into my shins with gusto. Blood oozed from my scraped flesh. “It meant nothing. I swear. I never looked at Row twice before today.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “You know I always thought he was freakishly tall and a little frightening—”
“And the compliments just keep on coming.” A wry sneer rolled off Row’s tongue above my head. He was leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, not a care in his world. “Is your secret talent pissing people off, Cal?” I hated him so much in that moment.
“Worst-kept secret, as you can see.” I flashed him a glare, gesturing toward his sister.
“Don’t you dare answer my brother like that.” Dylan shoved her finger in my face. “He’s way out of your league and the height of your love life.”
I was in complete agreement with her. Row was the entire deal. Hot, smart, and talented as hell. Not only was he not in my league, we weren’t even playing the same sport. He was football and I was…cheese rolling. Or something equally as eccentric.
“All I’m saying is I never meant for it to happen. It was a small lapse of judgment.” I pressed my palms together, still begging her on the ground, my clothes filthy and askew. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I had underestimated how important it was to Dylan that I wouldn’t mess around with her brother. Probably because literally every other girl at our school had. Or had tried to, at some point.
“Small?” Row inquired behind me.
“Huge,” I corrected, my head so hot I felt like it was going to explode. “Thick too. Better?” I shot him a dirty look.
“Infinitely.” He fished inside his front pocket for a cigarette, producing a pack of Gitanes. Of course, he smoked French cigarettes now.
“Wow. Okay.” Dylan scrubbed her forehead, shaking her head. “Guess I’m about to vomit the three slices of pizza I just ate.”
“Please forgive me, Dylan. Please,” I said desperately.
Row shook his head, trudging to the driver’s seat. He slipped inside and started the engine.
Dylan stared at me like a queen deciding whether to spare a lowly subject from execution. Her lips curled, arms folded over her chest archly.
“You know, Cal, I’ve always looked up to you. You’re gorgeous, funny, smart, a kaleidoscope of colors and facts about the nineties; I mean, damn, you’re a walking Wikipedia about serial killers and ghost stories, and still have the most sunshine personality I’ve ever known. It’s tempting to stick around, to let those Calla Litvin sunrays kiss your skin. But when you strip it all off…the playlists, the outfits, the good times…when you look inside and examine what kind of friend she is…she sucks.” Dylan shook her head, her arms dropping to the sides of her body. “Grow up, Dot. And do it far away from me because I never want to see your face again.”
She strutted back to Tuck’s red truck, slid inside, and barked at him to drive. Shockingly, the guy who had spent the last four years stuffing cigarette ash and condoms into our lockers did as he was told.
I stayed on my knees, in the freezing cold, mulling over her words. My fingertips numbed at the edges. Chills draped across my shoulders like an oversized cloak. I tilted my head sideways, at Row’s headlights. He flicked them on and off, his silent way of telling me to get inside before he changed his mind about not leaving me to walk home and catch pneumonia. He was stone-faced. The same standoffish version of himself he gave anyone who wasn’t Dylan and his mom. And, sometimes, me.
Cocky.
Calculated.
Corrupt to the bone.
Humiliated, I pushed my palms against the ground, staggering up to my feet. I began limping toward his car, icy mud falling off my knees in clumps. Behind the windshield, Row’s expression was flippant.
I tried to see myself through his eyes. This pitiful, crumpled creature. Mangled and stained, like a discarded supermarket list at the bottom of a cart. A beautiful girl, the townsfolk all agreed behind my back, but so very odd, just like her father.