Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
All good, right?
No. I then cart the suitcase into my English Lit lecture hall, where I need to give a presentation on a Brontë book. Not one written by Charlotte or Emily, but Anne. The lesser-known Brontë. I haven’t read the book—and yet that’s not what I’m stressed about? Go figure. Despite that, I nail the presentation.
All good, right?
No. Now I’m supposed to hand the suitcase to my professor. I pick it up and carry it toward him, and just as I reach the center of the room, the overstuffed case bursts open and its contents spill out. Except, for some inexplicable reason, all the notebooks are gone.
They’ve been replaced with naked pictures of me.
Now the entire floor of the lecture hall is covered in eight-by-ten photographs of my bare boobs and ass and lady bits. A sea of nudes.
And then I wake up.
I don’t know what that says about my psyche—or what I was watching on TV the first time I dreamed it—but that nightmare became imbedded in my subconsciousness like a rusty nail. I could expect it every week like clockwork, and I’d wake up every time feeling the burn of humiliation and a potent rush of insecurity.
I can honestly say that what I felt last night was a hundred times worse.
I have never propositioned a guy in my life.
And I never intend to do it again.
Because rejection is a bitch. It’s soul-sucking. Confidence-crushing. I cannot erase from my mind that uneasy look on Tate’s face. The flicker of panic in his eyes when I suggested a fling. The way he fidgeted when he told me he just wants to be friends.
Brutal.
Fucking brutal.
If I’d had a shovel on me, I would’ve dug a huge hole in the ground, gotten into it, and buried myself alive. Knowing my luck, though, the afterlife would end up being that nightmare lecture hall full of my nudes.
Now, I’m forced to repeat the whole story to Peyton, whose voice blares out of the car speakers as I drive over to my dad’s house for dinner.
“There’s no way it was the kiss,” Peyton insists.
She’s responding to the suspicion I’d just voiced: that Tate had kissed me, almost threw up in his mouth, and promptly decided he could never do it again.
“What other explanation is there?” I counter. “One minute we’re making out. Then he leaves for a few minutes and when he comes back, he tells me he wants to be platonic. That absolutely means he hated the kiss.”
“Not necessarily.” She pauses. “But if we were to play that theory out … were there any signs he didn’t like it? Did he try to pull away at any point?”
“No,” I groan. “If anything, he just came closer! And I swear he was hard. I felt him against my leg.”
“Hmmm. Okay?” She mulls it over. “Maybe he was drunker than you thought?”
“Gee, thanks, Peyton. So what you’re saying is, a man needs to be completely wasted to kiss me?”
“That’s not what I’m saying! But. Maybe he was drunk when he kissed you, and we both know people do impulsive things when they’re drinking, right? So hooking up could’ve seemed like a good idea to him in the moment, but then he sobered up a bit and everything he said afterward wasn’t some elaborate excuse. He really does want to do his own thing this summer and not hook up with anyone. And he really does think you’re awesome, is attracted to you, but doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the friendship. All of those things can be true at once.”
She’s right. But the bottom line remains the same: I propositioned Tate Bartlett and he said no.
“Honestly, it’s probably for the better. Remember my silver lining? Don’t spoil all subsequent prospects by flinging with a guy that’s too attractive. I shouldn’t have let myself forget that.” I purse my lips. “What I need to do is find myself, like, a seven. Maybe a six.”
“You are not flinging with a six.” She is utterly aghast. “Over my dead body. I’m willing to compromise and settle halfway between a six and a ten—Tate’s a ten, right?”
“Oh yeah,” I say miserably.
“Fine, then we’re aiming for an eight. Go out with Joy tomorrow to try to meet someone else and send pics so I can verify his eight-ness.”
“We’ll see. I might need to nurse this rejection for a little while first.” I turn onto Sycamore Way and slow down. “Anyway, just got to my dad’s. I’ll text you later.”
“All right. Love you, babe,” she chirps before disconnecting.
It’s so strange returning to my childhood home when I don’t even have my own bedroom there anymore. The twins usurped it because it’s larger than the other option, which Dad and Nia use as a guest room now. That’s where I sleep when I come to visit, ensuring my old house never quite feels like home anymore. Also, Nia redecorated the entire place not long after she moved in. Where my mom’s design eye lends itself to grays, creams, and whites and modern furnishings, Nia is all about bright colors. She loves mismatched furniture, pieces that offer a cozy rather than museum-like feel. I can’t deny I like Nia’s décor better.