Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I’ve created one hell of a shitshow for myself.
I find Louis and Jennings under a super-old cherry blossom, with a Chipotle bag between them and their bowls in their laps. They greet me as I sit down, taking the chips and salsa.
Jennings snorts. “Please help yourself. There’s some guacamole in there too.”
I tip a chip at him. “Let me know when you want to leave my brother. I’ll snatch you up.”
Louis glares as Jennings laughs loudly. “Oh, Dawson honey. Can’t have two tops.”
I whip my head to Louis. “You’re a bottom? I knew I should have let you win some of those wrestling matches when we were growing up.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, but Jennings and I just laugh. “Anyway! What happened?”
I explain everything, and they listen intently. I thought my idea was sound. I’d tell her some things about me in a fun way, get her to want to know more, and then invite her to my game. I know she doesn’t follow football, but maybe she’d enjoy watching me. I know my family would show her a good time and talk me up—if she stays away from my dad—and afterward, it’d be my turn. I wanted to take her to get milkshakes since she mentioned liking them on an episode a few weeks back. I wanted to tell her that it was me who has been messaging her and then ask her out once she had all the facts in front of her.
It was a solid plan, one I worked hard on, yet it made her cry.
The guilt that floods me reminds me of the time my dad let me use a game-day stick one summer. I promised I’d be careful and I had every intention, but when Louis lifted my stick, stealing the puck to score on me for the ninth time in a row, I lost it. I was so pissed my little brother was playing me like a puck, and I snapped. Instead of breaking his neck like I wanted, I slammed the stick into the side of the goal, snapping it in two. I got my ass handed to me, and I felt awful since it was the stick from my dad’s last NHL game. But not even that moment can touch how shitty I feel now.
“I don’t know why it’d make her cry,” I say between stuffing chips into my mouth to ease the feeling in my gut. I don’t usually eat this, but man, the saltness of these chips…I can’t resist. “I’m so fucking confused.”
Louis gives me a bored look. “And you’re sure she likes you likes you?”
I nod. “Yes. I’m telling you, I know when a girl is feeling me, and while it’s different with her, she’s feeling me.”
“But don’t girls usually throw themselves at you? It seems this girl is running from you.”
I wave a chip at him. “Good thing I’m fast.”
Louis rolls his eyes. “Learn when to walk away.”
“I think my track record shows I don’t know how to do that,” I say with a grim smile, and Jennings snorts. “Also, you stick with guys, and leave girls to me.”
Louis rolls his eyes, and I look at Jennings to laugh, but he doesn’t. His eyes meet mine, his cool gray ones full of wonder. “What if she can’t read?”
“If she can’t, who cares? I don’t. But I’m telling you, she’s smart as a whip, and no way she can come up with what she does on her podcast on the fly. She is brilliant. Plus, she has been messaging me, so I know she can read.”
He shrugs. “What if she’s dyslexic?”
I pause eating and stare at him as Louis slowly nods. “I bet you’re right. Remember Brady Young last year? It took him like ten minutes a page to get through his paper.”
“And when he was super overwhelmed, he’d shut down. Maybe the same happens to her,” Jennings suggests, and my face twists in confusion. They ignore me, basically talking to each other. “Yeah, and you said she’s a broadcasting major? Professor Koshkin is the head of that department, and his son, Vincent, is a buddy of mine. He’s dyslexic, and they’ve been working on a keyboard app for people with dyslexia. Koshkin works hard with Bellevue to make sure that all students with dyslexia are able to turn in assignments in a way that makes them successful. They’re doing really good things for the community. He even has a club—” Jennings holds up his finger and reaches for his phone. Then he nods, holding out the phone to me. The screen is showing a professional photo of Ambrosia, her eyes shining in all their whiskey glory as she smiles demurely at the camera. She has on a bright-red shirt that reads: Go Red for Dyslexia. Under her name, it reads President.