Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97882 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I didn’t want him so much as looking at Julep, let alone thinking about touching her.
The problem was that I had no right to feel that way, or act that way.
I was losing my damn mind over a girl I should have been staying far, far away from.
“Hit the shower,” Clay said to me, and he gave me a look that said he’d be talking to me later, that he saw right through the bullshit.
They all did.
Which meant I had better get my act together before Coach Lee started to notice, too.
Julep
God, if you really exist, please strike me with a lightning bolt at this very moment and end it all.
The thought was only half a joke as I pushed pasta around on my plate listening to my father tell Mary stories about me as a kid. Of course, Mary leaned into every word, smiling and laughing and egging him on with questions in-between throwing me winks across the table.
Traitor.
I was happy she was winning him over — first with inviting him to dinner, then with cooking said dinner, and now by laughing at his stupid jokes and acting like she was interested in his boring football talk. When he’d first seen her on move-in day, piercings and tattoos and leather-clad, I knew he’d been worried. So, this dinner, her softening his suspicion — it was a good thing.
I just wished it wasn’t at my expense.
And I wished my father wasn’t pretending we had some glorious relationship when the truth was that we barely knew each other at all.
“Wait,” Mary said, chuckling as she wiped her mouth with her napkin before folding it in her lap again. “You’re telling me that Julep, the Julep sitting at this table with us, used to tie bows in her hair?”
“Every day,” Dad said, beaming. “She’d match it to whatever she wore that day, and she had a special one for game day. Bright blue and orange like her uniform.”
“I still can’t believe you were a cheerleader,” Mary said, snickering.
“Trust me, it wasn’t by choice,” I grumbled.
“You loved it,” Dad teased.
“No, Abby loved it,” I corrected, meeting his eyes. “I just did it for the boys.”
Dad’s mouth thinned into a flat line, and an awkward silence fell over the table as he reached for his wine and took a sip.
My gaze stayed fixed on him, as if this time might be different from every other time I brought her up. I wanted so desperately for him to admit it. To say, “Ah, that’s right. It was Abby who loved cheerleading, wasn’t it? Didn’t she used to cheer the birthday song to you every year?” And I could laugh and say, “She sure did, even when we were teenagers.”
Then, we’d both laugh — even if that laughter was underlined with sorrow. But we could remember her, share the memory of her, and keep her alive in even that small way.
Instead, he stayed silent, and I grew more resentful.
Mary gave me a look like what the hell was that?
I only looked down at my plate, counting down the minutes for this dinner to be over.
To anyone on the outside of this dinner, it would seem I was being a brat. And I guess in many ways, I was. But I felt that lingering gaze from my father all the time. It wasn’t as bad as Mom’s, who barely wanted to see me at all anymore, but I still felt it.
It was the sadness, the worry, the fear of what my life was, and even more so of what it would become.
In truth, I could admit that I was an ungrateful little snot when it came to how much he put up with where I was concerned. I’d put him through enough, too much really, and yet he still tried. He still wanted to see me succeed.
Sometimes, I wished he’d just leave me to dig my holes and bury myself alive in them.
“Speaking of boys,” Dad said after a minute, and all the lightness that was in his voice before disappeared. “Are the players leaving you alone?”
“Oh, my God, Dad,” I said, huffing as I sat back and shoved my plate away from me.
“I see the way they look at you,” he said. “And I know better than most how football players can be.”
“No one is bothering me.”
“Leo Hernandez?”
“No,” I said in a bored tone, though I didn’t miss how Mary’s lip curled at his name.
“Zeke Collins? Clay Johnson?”
“They both have girlfriends. You know their girlfriends.”
Dad made a face like he wasn’t sure that mattered. “Kyle Robbins?”
“Who?” I made a face, waving my hand in the air to illustrate how little I cared.
Dad picked up his fork, stacking some pasta and broccoli. “What about Holden Moore?”
I sighed, shoving back from the table and standing. “Trust me, Dad — everyone has heeded your warning and they’re all staying away from me. Now, if this interrogation is done, may I be excused?”