Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I swooned. He smirked.
I fell. He caught.
I wore his shirt. He dressed me in it.
Yep. We had it all.
Almost.
Problem is, we’re missing the best part…
The motherfucking happily ever after.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“He’s never coming for me! He’s never going to call! He doesn’t love me!” I fall across the bed next to Emily and bury my face in her shoulder. I need her to hold me. Instead, she pulls away and stands up.
“For crying out loud, Penelope. You’ve been home three hours. Chill out.”
I know Emily is annoyed with me. Hell I’m annoyed with me. Running away without so much as a goodbye? That’s typical heroine bullshit. And I pride myself on not being the typical heroine. But at the first chance I had, I ran. Now here I am—back home in Mississippi. Sad because I miss Jake. And angry because he hasn’t come begging for me back yet.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Millions of women would kill to be casual with a man like Jake Swagger. Me? Noooo…I’m in love….
Why do I think my heart is so important? Who cares if it gets crushed? Jake is good looking. Great in bed. Rich. Smart. Fun. Sweet. How many people are married to men who aren’t even half that?
Stupid heart.
But right now isn’t about me. It’s about Emily who needs to step up and be a best friend. If that means lying or doing something extreme to make me feel better, then that’s exactly what she needs to do. But when I tell her this, she rolls her eyes.
“What do you want? Hmm? Me to fly to Chicago and set a bag of flaming dog shit on his porch?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”
She leans against the dresser and narrows her gaze at me. Even after all these years, I still haven’t gotten used to how creepy her crystal blue-gray eyes are when she squints like that. “You know what you are, Penelope? A hypocrite.”
Shocked, I rise up to a sitting position. “Hyp-hypocrite? D-did you just call me a-a hypocrite?”
“That’s exactly what I called you. And stop with the stuttering theatrics. There’s nobody here but us.” Bored, she takes a pull from her vape. She doesn’t even vape. She’s just doing it because it tastes like blueberries and she claims it helps curb her appetite. She also claims she needs to lose fifteen pounds. Which is ridiculous.
“How am I a hyp…hyp…I can’t even say it.” I cross my arms and look away from her.
She breathes out an exasperated—overly dramatic, if you ask me—breath, and pulls her long black hair over one shoulder. “You’re mad at him for calling what the two of you had casual, but you never once told him you wanted more. You’re mad because he didn’t tell you he loved you. Even though you never told him. And you’re mad he hasn’t come after you. Yet you’re the one who left without so much as a goodbye.”
I know these things. These things are the truth. I know that too. Doesn’t mean I want to hear it.
“Fine.” I grab my keys and my phone and push past her.
“So you’re going back?”
“No.” I take the steps two at a time until I reach the garage.
“Then where are you going?”
I look up to find her leaning against the door of my apartment. Fighting a smile. Which solidifies my decision to do what I should’ve done when I first got home. “To find a new best friend.”
I glance over at the empty carton of Blue Bell Dutch Chocolate ice cream sitting on the coffee table and feel tears well in my eyes.
I ate my new best friend.
After I bought the ice cream, I came to my mom’s house—which is literally in my front yard, since I live in an apartment above her work shed in the backyard. I planned to pout and sniffle until she asked what was wrong. Then I was going to tell her everything as she held me and stroked my hair. She’d say all the right things. We’d watch a chick flick. And my tear-soaked ice cream would be the result of someone else’s heart breaking and not my own—because my sweet mother would assure me that Jake would indeed come.
Problem is, she wasn’t home. So I was forced to eat ice cream soaked in my tears, shed over my own broken heart, all alone.
God I’m pathetic.
And what do pathetic people do? They get in their best fat clothes—a size 3xl T-shirt and threadbare stretchy pants—eat junk food and watch Pretty Woman, all alone, curled up on their mom’s couch feeling sorry for themselves.
Ninety minutes later
“…She rescues him right back…”
“Oh, fuck off, Vivian. Nobody says that shit.”
I throw a Funyun at the T.V. And when that doesn’t make me feel better, I throw the entire bag.
“Whoa, kid. What did my T.V. ever do to you?”