Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Only ends in the pure and utter destruction of one’s soul and faith in all that is good, as I can sadly attest.
Well, fuck that. After the way Shannon ripped my heart from my chest the week before high school graduation, I don’t plan on getting serious with another woman for a long, long time.
Maybe in the distant future. Someday. Some vague, undetermined future day.
But definitely not tonight. Nope, tonight I’m pulling up our favorite hookup app, Caitlin already firmly in the rearview mirror of my sex life.
“Are you on our profile?” Will sounds amused as he peers at my phone.
“Yeah. Just checking messages.”
We created a joint profile a few weeks ago, mostly because it’s awkward to be out somewhere flirting with a girl and find a way to gauge if she’s interested in both of us without appearing like sleazeballs. A hookup app feels like an efficient way to vet someone beforehand while sparing yourself the embarrassment of rejection or horrified outrage.
Not that I embarrass easily. It takes a lot to make me care about shit. My default state has always been unfazed.
“Anything good?”
“I think these messages are from a bot.”
I delete them, unmatch the girl, and am about to exit the app when the profile on the main screen catches my eye.
“Fucking hell, Larsen. Look at this.”
When I show him the photo, he shoots me a knowing grin. “The bow?”
“The bow,” I groan.
The girl in the picture is lying in bed, wearing a purple lace bralette and a pair of panties in a matching shade of purple with a little pink bow in the center of the waistband. I am a sucker for bows. I want to capture that bow between my teeth. Nibble on it. And then nibble on every inch of that body. Small, perky tits. Tucked-in waist. Long legs.
I don’t even care what her face looks like. Her body’s a weapon. I want my mouth all over it.
“Yeah, we’re liking her.”
Will is chuckling to himself. “Do you ever not think about sex?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
I tap the heart in the corner of her profile photo, praying she liked us in return. A second later, my favorite alert pops up.
It’s a match!
CHAPTER THREE
CHARLOTTE
My inner critic is such a belligerent bitch
I WAS SIX YEARS OLD WHEN I FIRST REALIZED WHAT IT “MEANT” TO BE adopted. It dawned on me during a playground argument with another girl in my class. Stacey. Goddamn Stacey. I don’t remember how it started, but it was the most asinine fight, each of us arguing that our parents would buy us anything we wanted. Which was an absurd sentiment because I was in no way a spoiled child.
Stacey bragged that her parents would go buy her ice cream in a blizzard if she asked. After I gave an equally ridiculous comeback, she argued, “Yours would never do that.”
And then, with a smirk, she threw out the careless remark that shattered my world.
“You’re not even their real daughter.”
Her words were like tiny daggers into my heart. I’d known I was adopted since I was old enough to ask why I looked more like my friend Daisy Jeong and her parents rather than my own family. But I don’t think I ever truly grasped the concept, not until that fight with Stacey.
I ran away, tears streaming down my face. I was so upset that the teachers had to call my parents to come pick me up. It was Dad who drew the short straw of leaving work in the middle of the day. I refused to tell him what was wrong, refused to let him console me. But later that night, when he was tucking me into bed, I burst into tears, finally breaking down and confessing what Stacey had said. Mom came rushing into my room, and the two of them proceeded to comfort me and explain that just because we weren’t related by blood didn’t mean I wasn’t their real daughter.
But their words couldn’t erase the terror that had taken root in my heart.
What if they decide they don’t want me anymore?
I tried to bury those fears, but growing up, they always found a way to resurface. Every time I misbehaved, every time I brought home a bad grade, a voice inside me whispered that they might send me back. I began to watch their every move, analyzing their words and actions, searching for signs that their love for me was conditional.
Now, I’m twenty-one, turning twenty-two next summer, and for the most part, those fears have vanished. It’s been a very long time since I looked at the family photos lining our mantel and questioned if I truly belong in them.
But it’s times like these, when we’re going around the dining room table and everyone lists one goal they’ve set or an accomplishment they’re proud of this month, that I wish the people who adopted me weren’t so fucking perfect.