Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
What do you think? Preggers or not? Check out the photos below to make your own decision!
47
AKARA KITSUWON
NOW
@cobaltempire4ever: This is so dumb. Her stomach is barely big. Y’all need to grow up. #MeadowsBaby
@ravenhowl: Like this is the definition of bodyshaming. Leave Sulli alone! #MeadowsBaby
@Lilosupremacy: She’s not pregnant. Period. Drop it. Stop fueling the media’s gross obsession with this. #MeadowsBaby
@CoKeisCool: Def food baby. #MeadowsBaby
@raisinsrule21: I dunno. Sullivan Meadows could be pregs. #MeadowsBaby
I scroll through the tweets on my phone. Brows drawn together. I should feel ten-feet high that fans are actually defending Sul, especially since she really wasn’t showing in Moab. But I’m pissed that the paparazzi took photos of her.
Pissed they’re dissecting her body.
Pissed that her being pregnant is now in conversation, making it harder to keep the truth from spilling.
Sulli munches on a bag of chocolate-coated, powdered-sugar-dusted cereal and reads over my shoulder. Her lips downturn. “Maybe I’m going to have to hole up in the penthouse earlier than we fucking expected.”
I don’t want that for her. To become a recluse because of our baby, but I can’t promise this won’t blow over. She’s almost eight-weeks pregnant now—the baby the size of a blueberry (Sulli Googled it on the car ride here). And the intensity of the press, the media, the world will explode when she does start showing.
Right now, Sulli and I are sitting in the third row of an old but beloved theatre in New York. Popular rock bands frequently play here, and today, The Carraways are auditioning drummers on stage.
Potential drummers stand in a long line that streams through the aisle and out the double doors. Most are cradling drumsticks and nerves as they anxiously await their turn.
The Carraways aren’t a small punk band anymore. Their label houses big named alt-rock bands that fill arenas and sell-out international tours. And they’re currently promoting the crap out of Tom and company. I saw four posters of Tom’s skull-and-crossbones half-painted face on bus stops while driving here.
I keep an eye on the drummers. Once they’re vetted by security, they’re allowed to take a seat in the back of the theatre.
Banks had to help his Uncle Joe fix some old Mustang, so I’m alone on Sulli’s detail.
And I’m aware she’s here, now, to watch her cousin’s band auditions so she can spend time with Luna before she does have to “hole up” at the penthouse.
“Upside,” I tell her and reach into the bag of chocolate cereal. “You won’t have to hear the rise and fall of The Carraways at Summer Fest.”
As soon as I say the words, a horrible clash comes from the stage.
A white guy with a shaved head steadies the cymbal. “Oops. Sorry, fuck. I can try again?”
Tom Cobalt sits in the front row, two ahead of us. He seems more nervous than the drummers. “That’s okay, dude. I think I’ve seen enough.” He anxiously scans the line, hoping someone meets his impossible standards.
“Really? But—” He stops talking as Tom’s bodyguard, Ian Wreath, walks over to escort him off the stage.
Sulli winces, then leans into my shoulder. “It’s been an hour already, right? Fuck. Why are they all so bad?”
“Because they’re trying out just to see Tom Cobalt.” I pop the overly sweet cereal in my mouth. “They’re all probably beginners or worse.”
“It fucking sucks,” Sulli grumbles.
I toss a piece of cereal at her nose. As it bounces off, powdered sugar remains. I laugh, and she elbows my ribs.
“Be fucking careful, Kits. You start a food fight with me, you start a war.” She sticks her hand into the bag.
“Are you Sulli or is this Sulli’s alter ego?”
She makes a confused face.
I smile more, tossing cereal in my mouth. “Pullivan the Powdered Sugar-Nosed Princess—” I grunt, then gasp as she slugs me hard. “Pullivan.”
“The name is Sullivan.” She’s a close second from tearing the cereal box out of my hands and pouring the contents on my head. And I wouldn’t mind that—but I just picture my dad sweeping my mom off her feet with an impromptu slow-dance and sweet, unexpected gestures like poetry and neck kisses.
And I’m tossing cereal into my girlfriend’s face and calling her a powdered sugar princess.
I almost groan at myself.
What am I doing?
Ex-girlfriends—I never teased the way that I tease Sulli. Not to this extent. But I also never really loved any exes like I love Sulli. And it’s not like I’m overly playful with every friend the way I am with Sulli either.
Flirting.
I’m flirting with her. How the heck did I never see that from the beginning?!
Denial.
Well, I’m not in denial anymore. I know what the hell I’m doing and why I’m doing it, but does she?
I chew cereal more slowly and sink back into the theatre seat.
“Kits?” Sulli touches my bicep where she punched. “Fuck, did I hurt you?”
“No.” I try to force a smile, and I hate that too. I’m not okay—and she doesn’t need me to try to be. Banks is right; I just need to be more open with Sulli. “This is hard for me,” I breathe softly.