Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
She snorts. “Yeah, no red flags there.”
“I could’ve left you in the rain.”
“You still could.”
I glance over. “Planning to report me when you get home?”
“I’m planning to survive the night. After that? We’ll see.”
We ride in silence for a while, rain tapping against the windshield. Then I catch her staring again—this time at my hands, my jaw, my ink. She’s not even pretending to be subtle.
“You always stare that hard, or am I just lucky?”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away.
“I was trying to figure out what your tattoos mean.”
“They mean I don’t always make great choices.”
“Any better than picking me up?”
“No.”
She tucks her arms tighter around herself and looks out the window again. We don’t speak for the rest of the ride.
Not until I pull off the exit she calls out, leading to a run-down strip of a motel that’s falling apart at the seams.
She straightens in her seat.
“You sure this is it?” I ask.
“It’s temporary.”
I kill the engine. She hands me back my wallet.
“Thank you for not being a serial killer.”
“You’re welcome.”
She unbuckles, then pauses. “I know you said you don’t usually help people like this…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, I don’t want to owe you.”
“You don’t.”
She opens the door, then looks at me again.
“What if I did want to give you my name now?”
I stare at her a second too long.
“Don’t,” I say. “Not yet.”
She nods and steps out of the car. At the motel door, she pauses and glances back.
I reach into the glovebox, tear off a crumpled receipt, and scrawl my number. I get out, walk over, and press it into her hand.
“Call me in a few days,” I say. “If you’re still alive.”
She stands still, blushing and staring at me like she’s not going to go inside, like she’s going to tempt me to end this night differently.
“Please go inside now, ”I say, taking one last look at her, “before I ruin you.”
I turn around and leave first before I do something even dumber.
—
THREE WEEKS LATER
3
EMILY
My fingers hover over the send button for what has to be the millionth time.
Hey, Cole. It’s Emily. (The ‘not’ a lot lizard from weeks ago)
No, no.
I delete it and try again.
Still alive? That makes one of us.
Delete.
I don’t know why, but… I honestly can’t stop thinking about you.
Hard no.
I shut down my text messages altogether.
I’m sure that a guy like him has met plenty of other girls in the three weeks since we met and has options stacked like poker chips.
I toss my phone into my bag, pissed at myself for even trying. Then I turn off the dryer at the laundromat and stuff my clothes into a bag.
Tucking the wash card into my pocket, I lug the bag over my shoulder and head across the street to my shared motel room.
The moment I near our door, the scent of waffles and coffee smacks me in the face, which can only mean one thing:
We’re moving... again.
I groan and unlock the door, coming face-to-face with a scene I know all too well.
My mom is setting up our Waffle House order on the desk that doubles as our dining table. She’s even placed a treat on the TV stand for me: chocolate strawberries.
That’s always the “please don’t hate me” cherry on top.
I join her at the table, saying nothing.
“You haven’t brought up Sean to me in a while,” she says. “Did something happen between you two?”
“He showed me his awful true colors. It’s over.”
“Aw, well, hon, he seemed like a really nice guy to me. Don’t write him off after one bad date, if that’s what you’re saying.”
I take a gulp of coffee to stop myself from elaborating.
“I have a surprise for us!” She clasps her hands together. “Guess what?”
“We’re getting a puppy.”
“Ha! No. Try again.”
“We’re getting a new car?”
“Oh, Emily.” She laughs harder. “We’re moving!” She jumps up and does a little dance, like this is the first—and not the sixteenth—time we’ve moved in the last four years.
“That’s amazing.” I feign excitement.
“Right? So after you eat breakfast, go ahead and get packed.”
I nod, even though I never really unpacked.
“Where are we going now?” I ask.
“Across the bridge to a suburb right outside New York,” she says. “It’s about an hour away, but it’s a beautiful place you can invite your friends to see, so you won’t lose complete touch.”
Right… “Is it a hotel or a motel?”
“Neither.”
“An apartment?”
“Nope, it’s not that either.” She pauses for several seconds. “It’s a house!”
“Really?” My eyes widen. “How big is it?”
“Huge.” She stretches her arms wide. “It has an outdoor pool, a garden, and a library!”
“How?” I arch a brow.
“What do you mean ‘how,’ Emily?”
There’s no nice way to say: Your credit is shot to hell, mine is too because of you, we don’t have money, and we can barely afford an apartment complex with a shared pool, so how the hell are we affording a HOUSE?