Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87439 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
He leaves in a huff, and as Cheryl looks me over, she takes my arm. “Are you all right?”
I notice a pink spot where my arm hit the wall. “I’ll be fine.”
“You should probably get some ice on that.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure? You can take the rest of the day off, and I can cover for you.”
I mull it over. “That would give me some more time to work on my essay. Would you mind?”
“Of course not. We’ll get this cleaned up. Then get some ice on that and clock out. I can handle all this.”
I help clean up but don’t put ice on my tender tricep. Just want to get away from the place so I can decompress.
I hop into my car, and without thinking, I pull up a familiar name in my contacts.
Grant.
It’s been three years since my uncle passed.
But he wasn’t just my uncle.
After my dad left my mom, and didn’t want to have fuck all to do with me, Uncle Grant stepped in to help Mom raise me. Then, seven years ago, he was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia. The majority of people don’t struggle with it until their mid-forties, but apparently, people can get it in their thirties too, which we learned the hard way. It progressed rapidly.
He was everything in the world to me.
My fucking hero.
The guy I could call whenever things were going good or bad in my life.
The first person I would want to tell about the crap that guy just pulled in there.
There’s a part of me that wants to hit the Call button, remembering those times shortly after he died when I could at least get his voice mail.
But we’re long past those days.
I could call Ryan, but I don’t want to spoil his night before a party, and it’s kind of late to call Mom, so I stuff it down with all those shitty emotions I’ve gotten so good at packing away. Instead, I tuck my phone back in my pocket and drive to the library.
It’s barely past seven, which gives me a good stretch of quality time, and it’ll be easier to concentrate here than at the frat with a party going down.
As I reach the third floor, I see a familiar face. Lance Fehn keys away on his laptop at a table by himself, the same table I’m used to seeing him at with his best friend, Ash Fuller.
I return to that weird-ass thought I keep having about him. That I marked him, so he’s mine. A strange sensation swirls in my chest, and I do my best to ignore it as I approach him. Could use a little of our banter to cheer me up right about now.
When I reach the table, I sling my backpack around, resting it in the chair beside him. The moment I catch his gaze, his eyes light up, the way Ryan’s or Keeg’s might when they see me somewhere. Like a good friend, not a rival.
“You planning to slight a Sigma Alpha party tonight?” I ask.
“Maybe I lost the invite,” Lance jabs before smiling. “I have a project I need to work on. And I’ve had so much going on lately, I needed a sober night to come and get it in. What’s your excuse? Shouldn’t the president be over there, setting up for his own party?”
“Not like my guys don’t know how to throw a party. And I’m in a similar boat. Taking on a lot this semester. Rush was killer, so need to get some work in before bidding this week.”
His gaze lowers. “Dude,” he says, reaching out and placing his hand on my arm.
His touch catches me off guard, and I notice the dark bruise from banging my arm earlier. I should’ve iced it.
“Oh.” I tell him about the asshole, relieved to have someone to talk to about it.
“That sucks. People are pretty cool with me at the rec center because it’s people from school, but I used to work at the mall, and it’s amazing how shitty people think they can be to customer-service workers. Like we aren’t even human.”
“Right?” I say, the sting of that moment still affecting me, but my eyes are drawn to where Lance still has his hand on my arm.
He must realize it’s weird too because he pulls away.
“So…” I draw out as I sit in the chair adjacent to his. “How was that girl you were with at that party last weekend?”
“Angie?”
“Oh, are there others? Have you just been lining them up since the last time I saw you?”
Tension builds in my chest, which…what the fuck is that about? It’s really not any of my business, but if that’s true, why am I so curious?
He chuckles. “There haven’t been any others,” he says, not answering my first question about Angie.
“You seen her since then?” I press.