Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
And I caught a glimpse of it.
Dear… Lord….
A gap.
I freeze in place, holding the bag of feminine products and candy suspended mid-air, transfixed—struck dumb—by the sight of Caleb’s mouth.
He openly stares back at me, and the amused air of his expression grows surly in an instant, his mouth snapping shut like an angry crocodile’s. I actually hear his teeth lock down.
Even so, I continue my trancelike perusal of him, recognizing with horrifying clarity that I’m no better than any other warm-blooded female who’s ever lusted after our male counterparts solely based on physical attributes.
Attributes that will forever forward make me go weak in the knees… say stupid crap… stammer and stutter… agonize over my words.
Stare. Gawk. Daydream.
I have some friends who go absolutely mental for a set of washboard abs, while others can’t resist straight white teeth and an infectious, toothy smile. Dimples. Then there are the girls who cannot get enough broad shoulders and rippling biceps. Or better yet, rippling biceps with tattoos.
I didn’t know, until this very moment, that I had a weakness of my own. Apparently, it’s gaps in a guy’s teeth.
Imperfectly… perfect.
Swoon.
Caleb
She’s staring—staring hard.
At my mouth.
Shit.
My cheeky grin falters, and without thinking, my tongue darts out of its own accord, running along the crude edges of the gap in my teeth that a hockey puck put there a few years ago. The exact moment and time I can’t recall, but I do remember this: it hurt like a motherfucker.
I watch her studying me, her face getting more flushed by the second. A bright pink rash appears from the inside collar of her pretty cream sweater, rising up her neck, past her cheeks, and all the way to her hairline.
Self-consciously, I pull my lips back down over my teeth, where they belong.
Abby slowly pulls her gaze from my mouth, our eyes meet, and for a few brief seconds, all we do is wordlessly continue to stare each other down.
Stare each other down fucking hard, until the cashier clears her throat.
“I-I should… I have to g-go,” Abby stutters, accidentally dropping her plastic shopping bag of tampons and gum on the ground, quickly bending to snatch it up and turning to flee, leaving a trail of muttered Oh my gods in her wake as she speed walks toward the exit doors.
The cashier’s eyebrows shoot up into her gray curly mop. “That didn’t go very well,” she chortles wryly, throat scratchy from too many cigarettes, as she scans my sandpaper and primer. “You better work on your flirting technique. Unless, of course, you wanted to scare the poor girl off.”
“Uh…”
“See there? Horrible technique. What is it with you young people? No courting anymore. It’s just wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am these days.” She shakes her head at me. “Your total is nineteen eleven.”
I pull out a twenty—careful not to pull out the gold ring mixed in with my loose change—hand it to the old bag, and stare off toward the automatic doors.
Abby: What’s the most awkward thing I’ve ever done?
Cecelia: I’m going to need you to give me a minute. There are way too many choices.
Abby: Remember that time in middle school, at Kassie Bauer’s party, when I got caught on camera digging my wet swimsuit out of my crotch?
Cecelia: So what you’re about to tell me is WORSE than pulling a suit out of your crotch AND climbing out a second story window????? I find this VERY hard to believe.
Abby: Okay, okay, fine. Maybe not as bad as THOSE. But picture this… Me + Wal-Mart + Caleb + One box of tampons
Cecelia: (eyes huge) This is me hanging on your every word!!! Start talking, and don’t leave anything out. On second thought, I’m calling you. 5 minutes. ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!!
CHAPTER 6
ABBY
“….and I couldn’t even get a copy of the practice test. I mean, I was hardly ten minutes late.” Jenna, who’s sitting cross-legged next to me on our ratty old couch, finally stops talking. “Hey. Are you even listening?” She nudges me in the ribs.
“Huh?”
She rears back a little so she can look me in the face. “What’s your deal? You haven’t heard anything I’ve said in the last half hour.” She reaches over and snatches the bag of pretzels off the coffee table, grabbing a handful and chomping on one.
“Sorry, I’m just…”
But Jenna isn’t a fool, and even though I can tell she wants to say something, she stays quiet instead. It goes without saying that she’s totally addicted to those Crime Scene shows and has learned from watching them religiously that the most effective way to interrogate a perpetrator or suspect is silence.
Silence.
“I’m just… preoccupied.”
More silence.
“For your information, I was listening. For the most part.”
Again, she says nothing.
“Would you knock it off,” I grumble.
She cocks her head and gives me a patronizing, toothy grin with her pearly whites, the contrast against her deep burgundy lips creating a wide, Cheshire Cat-like visual as she mutely watches me.