Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Is he avoiding me? Maybe he’s mad at me?
Why would he be, though? Our on-and-off friends-with-benefits arrangement has suited us both. Besides, Blake is incapable of being mad at someone. He’s the man who lets his evil, lying ex consort with his poor unsuspecting family because he doesn’t want to tarnish her reputation. I doubt he even knows the meaning of anger.
Still, I’m not thrilled with the idea that he might be ghosting me. I like this casual, have-sex-once-in-a-while thing we’ve got going on. It’s the perfect stress release, a nice orgasmic break from my chaotic schedule, and an effective temporary-amnesia inducer that makes me forget about my empty bank account.
“I guess he’s been busy,” I finally respond.
Violet gives me a look.
“What?”
“Um, he’s a hockey player, Jess. If he hasn’t called you, that doesn’t mean he’s busy. It means he’s busy.”
I raise my foam cup to my lips and take a sip. “Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s screwing other people.”
The coffee gets stuck in my throat, and it takes a few seconds of coughing to clear it. “He’s not screwing other people,” I sputter. “And even if he was…” I trail off. Even if he was, what? I’d be okay with it?
I mean, I guess I’d have to be okay with it. Blake and I never talked about us being exclusive. We agreed that our sexcapades weren’t going to be a habit. So how could I be mad if he’s seeing other women? And why did it take so long for the thought to even occur to me? Blake has the attention span of a fruit fly. He probably forgets I exist the moment he zips up his pants and walks away.
My chest clenches at the thought. Okay, that stings. And the idea of him having sex with someone else while also sleeping with me sends a hot streak of…something…up my spine. Oh no. I think it might be jealousy.
Violet speaks up again when I don’t continue. “All I’m saying is most of the Toronto roster is made up of man-whores, and Blake Riley has always been one of them. If you don’t lock him down, he’s going to move on to some other girl.”
“I don’t want to lock him down.” Then I question my own statement because…do I? No, of course not. If I asked Blake for exclusivity, that would be saying that I want a commitment from him. Which I don’t.
She shrugs. “Then you can’t get mad about him not texting you.”
I wasn’t mad about it! I want to shout. I hadn’t even noticed Blake’s radio silence until she brought it up.
I suddenly wonder if maybe she’s trying to get into my head. I was already freaking out about this final, and now, thanks to Violet, my brain is even more of a jumbled mess. But nobody is that calculating, right? I’m sure she was just trying to make conversation.
As we walk into the lecture hall, I banish all thoughts of Blake from my head and force myself to concentrate on what’s important. Passing this exam. Excelling in this program. Proving to everyone that Jessica Canning is not a screwup.
I can do this.
I know I can.
***
I can’t do this.
For the millionth time since I sat down, my gaze flies toward the clock over the door. We had three hours to write the final. We’re down to ten minutes.
I have one question left to answer. It’s the hardest one on the test, which I decided to save for last after wasting the first twenty minutes blankly staring at my exam booklet and struggling to write something.
I’m supposed to pick one of the diseases on the list and write a two-page “systematic examination of the disease process, physiological changes, and nursing implications, grounding the assessment in a pathophysiological framework.”
What the fuck does that even mean?
Heat stings my eyes, and I order myself—no, command myself—not to cry in the middle of the lecture hall. I have ten minutes to write a two-page response. Nope, make that nine minutes, because I just wasted a whole minute panicking about it.
Violet, of course, is long gone. She was beaming like a fireworks display when she delivered her booklet to the instructor thirty minutes early. She’s probably at the campus coffeehouse right now, bragging to everyone about how she aced this final.
Stop thinking about Violet! Write something!
I take a breath, then utilize the mantra Wes taught me after he caught me freaking out over a flower-related disaster when I was planning his wedding this summer.
It’s going to be okay.
It’s going to be okay.
It’s going to be okay.
I exhale slowly. Wow. All right. That kind of worked. Wes is really good at this calming-yourself-down stuff.
With my pen firmly in hand, I bend my head and start writing. I write as fast as I can, not bothering to proofread every sentence the way I usually do. There’s no time. Just write, Jess. You’ve got this.