Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Not once did he kiss me. Not once did he ask me to stay over.
“Glad you came out, Charisma. We’ve missed you,” Connor calls out, grinning as he raises his dark beer, and I throw up a wave.
“Blaze and company should be arriving any minute—or at least that’s the word from social media,” Margo says in my ear.
She needs to not bring his ass up.
“Haven’t thought of him in ages. Can’t recall a thing about the guy. Is he well?”
Her eyes squint at me. “They did win the national championship against UT two days ago, so yeah.”
“Good for him. I hope it brings him the millions he wants in the NFL someday.”
“You didn’t watch the game?” Her mouth gapes.
“Nope. I had better things to do. Went to the dentist, washed my hair, cleaned out Vampire Bill’s birdcage.” I avoid her eyes and take in the packed area. Bodies jostle around the bar, bumping and moving like molasses as co-eds do a loop from the end of the bar to the pool tables. This place was my go-to party place last year—until him.
My eyes narrow in on a huddled group near the back of the room.
Welcome Back, Wildcats! has been printed on a huge white banner and put up on the wall. Jersey chasers on dick patrol linger underneath it, waiting for their idols. My lips tighten.
“Yeah, the piranhas are circling.” She takes a sip of her drink, her gaze darting from me to them.
“IDGAF.” Acronyms—it’s my thing. They save time and get the point across.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown and give me a searching, almost worried look, reminding me she witnessed my spectacular breakup with Blaze at our party—although, was it even a breakup when we weren’t a real couple? I guess not, though the pain of us being over hurled me into a darkness I don’t like to think about, as if we’d been together for months.
And Blaze? Just the memory of his stony face and hard eyes, his hands on my shoulders, pushing me away, telling me I wasn’t—
“Right. Forget him. How was your Christmas?” she asks.
“It’s been almost four years, and Ma’s still upset I didn’t stick around the Bronx and marry a nice Italian guy across the street. Pop and my two brothers are rowdy as ever.” I manage a smile. “I did miss them though. Paulie’s kids are adorable, and Mattie’s still living at home and going to law school. He’s the one dealing with Ma’s meddling right now, not me, so halleluiah for that.”
She cocks her head. “Nice. You look pale.”
I don’t glance at her, keeping my eyes carefully focused on a point on the bar behind her. “I’m fine,” I say, but the truth is, I haven’t gone a day without thinking about Blaze.
I just…I just…can’t stop thinking about those words he said.
We’re over. You’re not my type.
At the time, we were on the dance floor, jammed between writhing, drunk partygoers, and I thought I misheard him. I knew we weren’t serious, but for the first time in my life, the walls around my heart were cracked, just a little, and even though I had my rules, I wanted him to be the one who stuck around. I wanted him to ask for more.
He didn’t.
He dumped me and went on with his life, like I was nothing to him but a notch on his bedpost.
Anger flares, building and growing.
“Not his type, indeed,” I mutter. Deep down I’m still that chubby girl in school with thick legs and huge boobs. Chubby Charm, Bouncing Boobs, Thunder Thighs—those nicknames stick in my throat like cement. Most days I’m past those old insults; I’m not normally one to wallow in adolescent self-pity, but when your thighs still touch and the guy you’re with dumps you and starts dating a toothpick who looks like she might break in half if a hard wind blows, it brings the memories back, sharp as a knife.
Margo frowns as she looks at me—again. Digging up some of my old flair, I paste on a big smile, catch the arm of a passing waitress, and order a round of drinks for the table: a shot of tequila for me, prosecco for Madame President, and a Guinness for Connor. The other guys decline my offer. Maybe they’re still wary of me, but I barely notice. My senses are heightened and taut, tight as a wire as I try to keep one eye on the door and one on my friends, hoping I look casual and not anxious.
Come on, football players! Let’s get this over with so I can get my ass home and put on regular clothes, raid my fridge, and watch Big Bang Theory.
Three tequilas in and only half an hour has passed. Plus, I’m still sober. I glare at my shot glass, contemplating an entire bottle. Why does each moment that passes feel so dang slow? Still, I look back up and give the group a sweeping smile. Here I am, happy as a clam, it says.