Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 179812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 899(@200wpm)___ 719(@250wpm)___ 599(@300wpm)
And then my eyes take in his features, which look even sharper somehow. The hollows of his cheeks are deeper. There are pits under his eyes, even, like he hasn’t slept ever since he left two days ago. He hasn’t probably shaved either, because his stubble looks thicker than ever. Although I know that can’t be true, the shaving part, because I saw his game this morning and he looked like he usually does. Like a soccer superstar, confident and cocky, although slightly more rigid than usual.
In any case, it seems like whatever has happened, whatever is making his chest go up and down wildly, has happened in the last however many hours. Even his clothes, his black t-shirt and his washed-out jeans, all wrinkled now, bear the brunt of whatever it is he’s going through. And for a few seconds as we stand here, staring at each other across the space, my heart squeezes so tightly for him that I want to fly across and throw myself into his arms. But then I notice something else. Something… bizarre.
Flowers.
A bouquet of red and purple flowers—roses, tulips, maybe even lilies?—in his hand. They look slightly torn and droopy, like he’s been carrying them for some time now. Across hundreds of miles even. For me.
They are, aren’t they? He brought me flowers for ignoring me, for making me feel all kinds of shitty and that… makes me so angry, so fucking angry, that I fist my hands at my sides. It makes me clench my teeth. Does he really think I’m going to forgive him just because he brought me flowers? Like I’m some… Well, I don’t know who or what he thinks I am but I’m definitely not going to melt and swoon at his feet just because he got me a pretty bouquet for fucking things up. Even though I do have that urge too because damn it, no one has ever given me any flowers. And I bet he hasn’t given flowers to anyone else either. Not even to her. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.
He notices the change in my demeanor at the sight of his offering and opens his mouth to say something while stepping forward, but I’m faster than him. I whirl around and start running. I don’t even stop to think it through, I simply take off down the hallway and get away from him. I hear the front door slamming shut and his muttered curse, but I don’t stop. I don’t even stop when I hear his footsteps chasing after me and he calls out, “Just, fuck, wait. Baby, I...”
Baby? Seriously? I’m not his fucking baby.
I dash to my room—his room, technically—enter and slam the door shut. I turn the lock just as he reaches and bangs on it. “Open the door, Strawberry.”
Oh, fuck him! Is he really going to call me by that name? All because I told him the other night I hated it when he called me by my name that night at the club. Does he really think it’s going to melt me?
Well, no, it’s not. I won’t let it. So I step back from the door and keep stepping back, lest I get the urge to open it. “No.”
“Just, please, all right? Just open the door and let me explain,” he calls out, still banging on it.
“There’s nothing to explain,” I say, the backs of my thighs hitting the bed, stopping my retreat. “You’re an asshole. There. That’s your explanation.”
I hear him emit a large puff of breath. “Yeah, I’m an asshole. I know. Just… please, all right? Just open the door and let me talk to you.”
I curl my hands into a fist. “I don’t want to talk to you. You’ve made me so mad that I don’t want to do my favorite thing in the whole world: talking. Congratulations, you’re the biggest asshole in the world.”
“Look, I know I fucked up,” he says through the door, and I swear I can somehow hear the grit of his teeth, the clench of his jaw at this, or maybe I’m just so attuned to him that I can hear things he doesn’t say, and I hate that in this moment. “I know that. Just give me a chance to fucking explain and—”
“Actually,” I call out, glaring at the door. “Why don’t you call me on my phone?”
“What?”
“Yeah, call me on my phone and leave an explanation in my voicemail.”
I hear him sigh. “That was shitty. I know that, baby, okay? I just—”
“No, wait, call me on my phone and see if you even get through to my voicemail.”
“What?”
This time his what is said in a soft, thin tone, and it makes my heart flinch for some reason. Still, I push through. “Yeah, try it. I dare you. I dare you to call me, asshole, because I blocked you. And you know what”—I move away from the bed and stride over to the window on the opposite wall, the one I saw him through the very first time—“I also just locked the window.” I throw the latch as I continue, “You kept saying, didn’t you, that if I wanted to keep you out, I should lock my window. So again, there. I did that too. You’re blocked and locked out of my door and my window. And my fucking life. Because I’m done, you hear me? I’m fucking done with you, so whatever it is you think you have to say to me, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want your explanation. And I don’t want your flowers, and I don’t want you to call me baby or Strawberry. Because I’m not your baby or your Strawberry. I’m not your anything except your newly discovered stepsister and the half-sister of your half-sister, okay? So just go.”