Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Not to mention, Career Day isn’t the only thing I’ve been failing in lately. I have about two weeks’ worth of papers to grade. My lesson plans are the opposite of planned. And my students have had the sad reality of a distracted teacher ever since I got back from Destin.
I’m dropping the ball. Actually, scratch that. I am the ball, and I am wrecking every-freaking-thing. Instead of being focused on my career and the well-being of my students, I’ve been too busy thinking about Mack and our hot sex.
Ever since my whirlwind vacation, I’ve been anything but myself.
Three days ago, I got frisky with him on school grounds, for goodness’ sake! In a place of education, I did everything but climb up him like a flagpole and hump his brains out. Last week, I sent him dirty text messages while my students took a pop quiz!
I did everything but what a teacher should be doing.
Goodness, I knew this wasn’t a good idea, engaging in some kind of fling with Mack Houston. I knew it, and yet, I willingly drove down his highway of fun at a hundred miles per hour, ignoring every giant red flag I sped by.
You certainly let your heart get a little involved, that’s for dang sure.
What did I think was going to happen? That our sexy fling was going to turn serious, and we were going to fall in love and get married and have some kind of happily ever after?
Mack Houston isn’t that kind of guy.
Is he fun and sexy and exciting? Yes, I can’t deny that.
But he’s not the guy you settle down with. He’s the equivalent of playing with fire, and you get burned. Hell, the man has a history of notating women in his phone by the places he’s met them because of how many women he’s dated in the past.
I inhale a sharp breath through my nose. Way to go, Katy.
My phone pings as I’m heading down the stairs of the subway station, and I pull it out to check the screen.
Mack: I just got to your classroom after I finished dismissal duty, and you’re already gone. Why’d you leave in such a rush today, babe? Are you okay?
This is the third text message he’s sent me since the Career Day disaster went down, and I’m too busy licking my wounds of embarrassment to text him back.
Am I okay? No, I’m not okay.
I fear that my students are traumatized, and they all went home from school today thinking about anything but their future careers. At one point, half the students were convinced Brooke Baker died on the stage. Thankfully, she only passed out, and the paramedics even cleared her to go home.
Though, I didn’t get to witness that because I was too busy puking up what little I ate today in the restroom. Truth be told, I’m still nauseated as hell from what I’m assuming is the utter failure I provided.
And Mack is right. I did leave school in a hurry. Once the bell rang and I successfully ensured all of my students were packed up and heading down the hallway, I grabbed my purse, locked up my classroom, and left before I had to talk to anyone.
I can only imagine the earful I’m going to get from Principal Dana Monday morning in our faculty meeting. She’s most certainly going to ream my ass for what went down in the auditorium this afternoon.
Even though I don’t have much to say to him right now, I know it’d be unfair to go radio silent. So, I type out a quick text message and hit send.
Me: I’m okay. Just not feeling so well. I’ll call you later.
Before I can shove my phone back into my purse, it pings with another notification. I expect it to be Mack, but it’s a reminder from Murck, a healthcare company I use for medication delivery.
Murck: Good news! Your next birth control shipment is on the way! Estimated delivery date is Wednesday, April 27th.
Out of pure habit, I open my calendar app to leave myself a reminder to look out for my shipment, but I pause when I see the familiar red devil emoji I use to mark the first day of my period, and I marked it over five weeks ago.
That has to be wrong.
I scroll through the dates, checking my previous periods from the past three months, and see that Aunt Flo is consistent in her every twenty-eight days schedule…except this time. I’m a week late.
Instantly, my stomach gives the familiar lurch of nausea it’s been plaguing me with all day, and realization and outright panic set in.
No. No way. I take my pill every morning at nearly the same time. I never miss one. And I haven’t been on any medication like antibiotics or anything else that would make it inactive—oh shit. Did they give me antibiotics at the hospital?