Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I nod.
My parents aren’t divorced…yet. But it feels inevitable. They don’t exactly get along these days, coexisting in the house though barely communicating. Not unless they have to. It’s strained and awkward and so uncomfy.
I hate it.
I doubt they have sex anymore—not that I want to picture my parents having sex, but isn’t that, like, part of a healthy adult relationship?
Anyway, I don’t think they have it and I don’t think they can stand each other, and they’re at the point where they don’t even hide it well. I wish they would call it quits; as much as I love them both, they are so…
I don’t know.
Removed.
It’s stressful tiptoeing around the two of them when we’re all in the same room. On the other hand, if they separated, would I have to move half my crap to another house? That would be a huge pain in the ass, so I’m not sure what’s worse: their weird relationship or starting anew.
“Where did that all come from, anyway?” Mom asks, still standing on the threshold of the laundry room, hip against the doorjamb.
“Art teacher ordered it.”
“Remind me again: Why aren’t you doing this at school?”
I shake my head. “We can’t bring any of the decorations into the gym until the day of prom—they need the space for basketball games and stuff. There’s literally no room to store any more of the decorations at school.”
And there are a ton of them.
She nods, understanding. “Are you still excited about your dress?”
I shrug. I was so ridiculously excited about the dress when we first bought it, but now it’s a daily reminder that I have no date and likely never will.
None of my prayers are being answered.
Ugh.
“What’s the shrug for?” my mother demands, standing up straight now.
“Yes. I’m still excited about my dress. I’m just nervous.”
Mom tilts her head. “What are you nervous about?”
I shrug again. “Just…maybe that prom won’t live up to the hype. But seriously, I love my dress and can’t wait to wear it.”
She wants to say more but doesn’t have the energy—I can see it on her face.
“We should probably make an appointment for your hair.”
We should, but I don’t see the point.
Not if I don’t have a date.
“I was going to have Macy do my hair and makeup.”
“Are you sure? Because I can make an appointment at my salon.”
I nod, unenthused. “You can if you want.” But it may not be necessary.
She hangs out a little longer, finally disappearing into the house. When she does, I go back to the task at hand, sketching the outline of my knight onto the cardboard.
Flashy metal.
Swords.
Cool helmets.
Breastplates.
My knights will have it all!
I concentrate, working well into the evening, far past the time my dad gets home. Working so long he brings me a plate—spaghetti. He sets it on the workbench, my music blaring from the wireless speaker.
Dad doesn’t question me the way Mom does, nor does he seem to mind that art supplies are scattered everywhere. For some reason, I’m not sure if his silence feels better or worse.
I twirl my paintbrush between my fingers, staring at the half-finished knight in front of me. The outline is bold, the details sharp. He looks powerful—like nothing could knock him down.
I wish I felt like that.
Instead, I feel stuck.
Chapter 3
Easton
We dare you to ask Maddie Miller on a date.
I stare blankly into my messy locker, Marcus’s words echoing in my brain, my constant companion over the last two days.
The hallway fills with students and I spot Maddie Miller at the far end, surrounded by her adoring pack of fangirls—phones out, all of them preening and fussing with their hair, pursed lips and all.
Nothing new there.
I’ve seen her videos, of course. I don’t know shit about social media, but I know it’s important to Maddie and that she has a decent following.
Rooted to the ground, I watch the girls in my peripheral, trying not to seem obvious—I wouldn’t be caught dead outwardly staring. Maddie’s feet move in a practiced dance…long legs…short skirt…cropped shirt.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
Holy shit.
I accidentally slam my locker shut, startled at the voice.
Turning my head, I see Harper Conrad twirling her locker combination. Her teasing interrupts my mental flatlining.
“I wasn’t staring at Maddie Miller.”
We both know I’m lying.
We both know I was staring; I just wasn’t planning on getting busted doing it.
I consider my staring research for the Dare. After all, why the hell would I want to ask Maddie on a date when she’s surrounded by her minions? I have to do recon work so I’m not forced to waltz over there when she’s with other people—I’m an idiot, but I’m not crazy.
Unfortunately for me, Maddie always has an audience.
“I never said you were staring at Maddie, I said ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ” Harper laughs, cramming a pink canvas tote into her locker. “You just outed yourself.”