Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
How easily she’s neglected both to the point of agony.
“Left you a little something in your locker—”
“Stop,” she breathes.
Every organ in my body seizes. Did she just speak to me? It’s the first time in two years that she’s even remotely acknowledged my existence, and if I wasn’t sitting down, I would probably be on my knees, the effect of having her address me is so powerful. “Allie,” I choke out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
That’s all it took.
One pleading word out of her mouth and I’m cracking.
“Just stop,” she says again, turning her head slightly. “Please.”
I collapse back in my chair, pulse thundering in my throat. My head is enflamed, heart mutilated. If we weren’t in the middle of class, if I didn’t feel like a monster, I would pull her into my arms right now. I’d hold her until she stopped struggling, then beg her to hit me, bruise me, make me pay for every shitty thing I’ve ever said to her. But before long, the bell is ringing and she’s diving out of her seat to get away from me. To put distance between us as quickly as possible—and I have no choice but to watch her, because my legs don’t seem to want to work properly.
Still, I manage to get out into the student-packed hallway, my plan to apologize for being crude and ugly and antagonizing for so long. My head, however, is telling me not to say sorry. It’s telling me she deserved it for being such a stuck-up snob, for blowing me off, for valuing money and status like everyone else. But my heart is telling an entirely different story. It’s insisting there is an explanation for her behavior. Am I going to apologize or not?
The decision is taken out of my hands when Allie opens her locker and the photograph I left before class drifts to the ground. It’s a picture I cut out from the senior yearbooks that were handed out earlier this week. In the photo is a smiling Allie above the caption Most Likely to Succeed. Except I’ve crossed out the caption and added my own. Most Likely to Be a Trophy Wife.
Watching her read it, I almost get sick right there in the hallway.
Usually, she’s perfectly composed, not betraying a hint of emotion where I’m concerned. Today, though…she’s not pulling it off. Something is not okay with her and I don’t like it. She has to bite down on her bottom lip to stop it from quivering as she shoves the photo back into her locker, out of sight, her luminous eyes finding me briefly, slaying me where I stand. Betraying with one single look how much she has been affected by my actions. Christ. She hasn’t been indifferent at all.
Before I can react, before I can call her name, she’s gone, vanished into the crowd of rowdy students excited to be leaving for the day. And I know what I have to do. I have to see her. To apologize. To get an explanation for everything.
Tonight. I’ll return to the field for the first time in two years.
Chapter Two
Allie
I’ve known this was coming all day.
Sitting on the couch in my living room, trying to make myself as small a target as possible, I watch my father pace. He rants and raves, gesticulating wildly. Picking up items that belonged to my mother once upon a time, before she did the smart thing and left, slamming them back down.
This isn’t new, my father’s rage boiling over.
But it’s going to be worse than usual. Business has declined for him and its put his temper on a hair trigger. There is no avoiding it. When he gets home from the office, he’s rarely in anything but a black mood. A category five tornado eating up everything in its path. Fascinating to watch, but utterly terrifying.
Reminded of the weather, I send a sidelong glance out the window and notice the approaching clouds. It hasn’t rained in weeks. I would give anything for a loud banger of a storm tonight. Something to get lost in, so I can forget what’s about to happen. So I can forget the picture Moore left in my locker today, the ugly words he said to me, the seething anger in his eyes when he looks at me.
“Are you even paying attention to me?” The slap across the face comes as a shock, because I’d momentarily disappeared into my thoughts, but the sting quickly brings me back to reality.
“Yes, sir,” I say, my ears ringing. “I’m listening.”
“This C on your chemistry test is going to drag your whole average down.” He snatches the hated test up for the tenth time, waving it in my face. “What a disappointment you are turning out to be. Your teacher shared my disgust.”
I nod solemnly, but I’m listening for the storm outside. “I’m sorry. I’ll do extra credit. Something to bring my grade back up to an A.” I wet my lips. “Even if can’t manage to raise the grade, it’s not going to show up on the college transcripts I sent off with my applications.”