Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
“It’s just what?”
This time when I close my fists, I do it hard. I do it in a way that my nails, even though they’re short and blunt, dig into my skin and make it sting. “It’s just that I don’t think he was expecting me. Or rather someone like me.”
Peyton’s spine straightens and her eyes grow angry. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Crap.
I shouldn’t have said that. Definitely not to Peyton.
Peyton and I, we’re more sisters to each other than best friends. We grew up together, see. In Black Rock, Montana.
Peyton’s family owns a ranch called Wildfire—the second-biggest ranch in Montana—and my family worked for her. My mom was her nanny and my father was one of the ranch hands. Growing up, we were inseparable. We went to the same schools; we played together, studied together, spent all our time together. And when she and her mother moved away from Black Rock to Bozeman, my mom and I went with them.
Peyton and I have gone through everything together: difficult families that are more absorbed in their own affairs than us; school and classes; periods and teenage hormones; boyfriend drama—hers, not mine; and now college. While I excel inside a classroom, Peyton is more outgoing. She loves to party and live large, and I try to do everything I can to live as small as possible. I’m the rule-follower, and Peyton is a rebel. Despite our differences, though, we’re two peas in a pod. I love her to pieces and would do anything for her.
Just as she’d do anything for me.
Including pranking boys who would call me fat in high school and teaching them a lesson.
“You know what,” I say, trying to put her at ease, “just forget it.”
She turns to face me, her features still set in anger. “Did he say something to you? Did he say something rude to you? Because I swear to God, I’m going to—”
I grab her arms and stop her. “Look, it doesn’t matter, okay? It doesn’t… He probably was expecting someone else. Someone who, I don’t know, looked different than me.” She takes a breath to say something, but I keep speaking: “Which is fine. I don’t care. I’m happy with the way I look, with the way I am. I just don’t need people to remind me and… I guess that’s what threw me today.”
That and the fact that I let myself do it.
I let myself go on an adventure. When I’m not the kind of girl who ever does that. I’m smart. I’m practical. I’m very, very careful. And there’s a reason for that.
A very good reason.
But I ignored all of that, and for the first time in my life, I let myself go. I let myself be reckless. Like any other college freshman, I let myself flirt with boys—and not just pretend-flirting on the phone by impersonating my best friend. Granted, I was flirting with a convicted felon via letters while using my best friend’s name, but still.
I just… I wanted to live for once.
And yes, part of the appeal was that I thought I’d never meet him in person, so this was a safe way to do something totally crazy. While the other part—the bigger part—was that I couldn’t control myself.
Something about him, about his words, spoke to me.
There was some magic in them that I still haven’t figured out. Or rather now that I’ve met him, I think it was fire. Hot, burning fire that I couldn’t help but want to touch, want to be branded with; I don’t know. All I know is that once I started writing to him, I didn’t want to stop.
But of course that was stupid.
All of it was stupid, and honestly, I’m glad that it’s over now. I can go back to my old life with classes, my job at the library, my other summer plans.
“You know you’re gorgeous, right?” Peyton goes, breaking my thoughts.
God, I love her.
I also know that she’s my best friend and she wears rose-colored glasses when it comes to me.
The truth is that I’m not gorgeous. I’m far from it. I’m too short and rounded. My ass and thighs are too big but my waist is too small, making it impossible to find pants and skirts that fit. Actually, I can hardly find shirts that fit, either, with my too big and too disproportionate chest. So I always end up with baggy jeans and a loose sweatshirt, clothes that I hate but are necessary. Not to mention, my nose is too small, and my eyes are too big. My chin is too jutting out, and my lips are too swollen. I have too much hair that I can never hope to tame, so I always just braid it, and my skin is too pasty and pale.
I’m either too much or not enough.