Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Hey.” My greeting is pleasant, paired with a grin. Not to be rude, but, “What are you doing here?”
My roommate—who I have never seen south of the railroad tracks off campus—slides into the booth with me, positioning herself so she’s facing the door, brushing away the strands of hair that have fallen in her face.
“I just wanted to say hi and um…get breakfast or something.”
Distracted, she glances around.
Removes the chain of her bag from her body and sets it on the seat beside her. Fusses with her hair.
I don’t believe for a second she came to say hi and get food, and I begin bobbing the tea bag floating inside my tea cup.
With a breath out, I say, “Kaylee, if you came because you want to bump into Jack, just say so.” Be honest.
She sighs heavily. “All right fine, you busted me.” My roommate leans over and reaches for a menu. “No sign of him?”
“No sign of him.”
“Bummer. I thought maybe…” Her glossy lips purse. “You know.”
She shrugs.
I do know.
Jack is…electric.
I don’t think I have met a guy quite like him before. Young gentlemen our age typically aren’t gentlemen at all; they’re rude and crude and have one thing on their brain: sex. Not only has Jack not put the moves on my roommate, he hasn’t put the moves on me when we’ve been alone, or on anyone else that I’m aware of.
I’m sure if he had, Kaylee would have found out about it—no doubt she’s chatted with her network of spies. Cheerleader friends, athletes, and anyone else who may run into Jack Jones on a regular basis—anyone who can provide intel.
“I haven’t seen Jack in a few weeks,” I tell her. “Sorry.” Gazing around, I catch sight of the server and motion for her to come over. “Do you want something? Their lattes are to die for.”
My roommate nods. “Sure, I’ll have a chai latte.”
She doesn’t say please or thank you before the server walks off nodding, and that bothers me.
I’ve never known Kaylee to be rude, but lately she’s been acting a little unlike herself, and I can’t put my finger on why.
Stress, perhaps? She’s getting older, and the cheerleading coach has been replacing many of the senior girls with younger, incoming freshmen—could she be worried about that?
“I came to ask you a favor.” She’s leaning in conspiratorially as if she has a secret to tell me, and I mirror her pose, leaning over too.
“What is it?”
“The rugby team has a practice game today, and I wanted to check it out.”
I nod slowly. “Okay. What does that have to do with me?”
“Will you come along? I don’t want to go by myself—I’d feel weird sitting there on the side. Like a sore thumb standing out.”
She’s not wrong; I don’t think there are any bleachers at the field where they play rugby, so most people sit in lawn chairs. If Kaylee were to show up and sit on the ground, it would absolutely look strange and she would stick out. Still, I’m not quite sure I want to go with her.
My shoulders sag. “Ugh, Kaylee. I’m not in the mood! You know I hate sports.”
“No you don’t, silly. You just want to stay here and nerd out with your notebook.” She flicks one of the pages with her index finger before using that same finger to pluck the half-eaten croissant off of my plate. She begins picking it apart—what there is left of it—setting one little piece on her tongue and chewing.
“Oh my god, I haven’t had carbs in weeks. This tastes so good.” Kaylee moans.
“Should I order another one?”
“Oh gosh no, I have to fit into my uniform this week for the game against State.”
Right.
“Well I don’t.” I laugh, snatching it from her hands and popping it into my mouth. Chew. Swallow.
“You bitch!” she chastises with fake outrage, bottom lip jutting out into a pout.
“You can’t call me a bitch and expect me to do you a favor,” I tease, still chewing, food in my mouth.
“I was only kidding. You’re the sweetest thing I know.” She smiles sweetly, trying to butter me up, reaching across the table and giving my cheek a little pinch. It’s a Southern thing, and she’s a Southern girl through and through. “The game began a little bit ago—we have plenty of time to make it.”
I make a show of gesturing around the table at all of my stuff, the notebooks and the laptop and my laptop bag, pens and pencils.
“What am I supposed to do with all this stuff? I walked here.”
“First of all, why would you do that? This place feels like it’s at the edge of the earth. Second of all, we have plenty of time to run it home.”
“You with your plenty of time…”
“I’m being serious. We can grab an Uber and make a pit stop at home, drop off your things, then walk to the park.” Her expression is hopeful and one I’ve seen at least a few dozen times.