Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
I really hope he takes the bait. I need to see that man again—before my reckless self does something else stupid.
It was so much fun, staying with him and Brooke in his house. Waking up with him, even if in separate rooms, and meeting in the kitchen like a secret rendezvous. I got to see his sleepy eyes. His happy eyes. His “give me a sec until I’ve had my first sip of caffeine” eyes.
Then the kitchen light goes off.
Stillness. Roaring waves. The cool sea air over my face in the semidarkness of an impending sunrise.
Perhaps it was his dad. Or a sister.
Not Finn.
It pains me so much to have left that behind. But I just couldn’t stomach what my being there was doing to them. The way Brooke panicked and redirected her dad and sister to her kissing booth thing, causing a whole other drama—all because I was afraid of mystery eyes on the bungalow tracking me like a gaggle of deadly stalkers.
I’ve put my burdens on top of them.
It feels so shitty in hindsight, how selfish I’ve been.
After the sun’s up, I’m lounged on the couch again. I feel like such a good boy, doing as I’m told, staying inside, staying unseen, letting Finn’s sister work her social media magic while I twiddle my thumbs. I feel so useless. I open an app on my phone, and the first thing I see is my face—but it’s laughing. #RiverSoReal. Did Brooke move on from the video-doubt-planting already to posting endearing stuff about my goofy, human side that apparently exists? I didn’t think to ask how close together her first and second waves of her strategy were. I figured this kind of thing would take weeks, not days. But here I am, scrolling through post after post, amazed at how a tide can turn so quickly. The hateful comments are still there, calling me out for my past acts of arrogance, but now they’re seasoned with people laughing with me (or at me, which is probably just as useful) and commenting about how adorable I look while trying to keep a straight face, or tripping on a simple answer in an interview—or this shot of me picking at my nose when I thought no one was looking at last year’s Oscars.
Where did Brooke even find these clips? How long did it take her to dig these up? She did so much work on her own with little to no assistance from me.
I’m back on the porch again, elbows on the railing, and gazing down the shore at the house. In the bright daylight, it’s difficult to see any activity there. For all I know, Finn is keeping his mind as far away from thoughts of me as he can, throwing himself into his work at the Fair. I wouldn’t blame him. If I was in his shoes, seeing me the way he likely sees me now, I’d probably keep my distance, too.
I decide that’s how it’ll be: I’ll give him space. That is clearly what he’s communicating by not dropping in or answering my cryptic text to the guest line. I’ll stay here in this quaint little house on the rocky shore, mind my own business, and not stir up any further trouble in his life.
Ten minutes later, I’m texting the guest line again. “I am in need …” I narrate out loud as I type. “… of the cute guy …” This is why I need more friends: to stop me from doing these impulsive things. “… who was here the other day. There is a … spider … in the corner of the … room … that requires immediate … exterminating. Please … and … thank you. Heart emoji, praying hands, kiss, kiss, spider emoji, skull and crossbones. And … send.”
So much for giving space.
Am I literally incapable of honoring my own choices?
There is seriously something fucking wrong with me.
I put myself to bed, toss my phone at my opened bag of belongings on the floor, and pretend I never sent the text.
At midnight, I’m wide awake and texting. Again. “I … think I may … be in need … of a … human-sized pillow to cuddle … that may or may not … be in the shape … of the cute guy … who was here the other day. Wink emoji, cry-face emoji, monkey hiding face emoji three times. And … send.” Then I toss my phone at my bag again and sit there on the edge of the bed, drumming my fingers on my skull.
Four minutes later, I’m at it again. “Disregard message about pillow … Send me the real thing … I would like … to talk … please … thank you …” I change my mind seven times about using any emojis, write and delete “sorry” nine times, then finally throw my phone away from me and collapse back onto the bed, frustrated, and shut my eyes.