Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“Anthony,” tries Trey once more, but the guy is already out the door. He lets out a sigh, then glances over at me in the kitchen. For a second, I think he’s about to ask me what I said or did, but instead, the compassionate guy he is, he gently asks me, “Are you okay, Bridger?”
Pete and Cody are looking at me, too.
It’s like everyone in this damned house was in on the plan all along. All of them, just waiting for one of us to bury our hatchet.
Maybe I’m with Anthony on this one. It was a lost cause long before it started. What the hell were any of these guys thinking?
“Yeah, I’m …” I start to answer Trey, then can’t seem to find it in me to lie. I’m not okay. I’m not alright. Something in me feels deeply unfinished with Anthony and the way he left, something in me that just won’t let go.
My foot’s bouncing in place again. Barely noticed it start. I’m thinking about how I stood between my dad and my mom and little brother. Tony’s got a hard-ass dad, too, comes Pete’s words from the back patio, nagging me. I wonder if Anthony’s ever stood between his dad and his loved ones, if his home life was anything like mine growing up, if it still is. If there’s some reason he can’t even trust a compliment to his face. A reason he can’t even hold a conversation with me without his blood boiling. Is there something else he’s fighting that no one sees? Something that no one else can understand? And why am I the only one who seems to recognize it? It’s something I’ve recognized in myself. Something fighting to the surface. I’m so fuckin’ tired of your pretty face …
That secret kiss on the church floor, his breaths crashing and urgent and full of agonized longing …
The next second, I’m out of the kitchen—and the front door.
13
ANTHONY
What was even the point of that?
To stuff my face in front of some guy I hate and his friend?
Trey Arnold-Davis has his reasons for everything, but I can’t wrap my head around why he’d invite me for dinner, of all the people in this town to invite. It sure wasn’t to just return a jacket. I could’ve brought it any other time, left it on his front porch, and been done with it.
No. Trey wanted me to see Bridger.
To hand the jacket to him.
Did he expect us to make up? To hug it out? Fight it out? Get drunk and laugh it out? None of that Kumbaya shit happened. As I figured it’d be, this whole night was a colossal waste of time, and all I’m left with is this stupid empty can and no trash bin to throw it into. Not that I’d make the shot. I’m a shitty aimer, apparently.
I never called his face pretty.
Where the actual fuck did that question come from?
I can still salvage this night. Go out dancing with Juni. Hit up a late-night movie. It isn’t too late. But I call her twice, and there’s no answer. So annoying. I can imagine her sitting at her vanity, all dolled up in pink everything, and her phone is buried under a pile of dirty bras, dresses, and perfume-drenched feather boas.
“Not safe to go out walking in the dark, y’know.”
I stop by the curb, about to cross the street, and turn.
Bridger stands there like a school chaperone, full of authority and self-importance, wearing that damned denim jacket, the one I just brought back to him.
The one I slept on all last night.
Probably drooled on, too.
Fuck, that was such a good night’s sleep.
“The hell are you following me for?” I spit back at him.
“And you’re … tipsy. Someone should make sure you get back home safely.”
I could almost laugh if I wasn’t so annoyed. “So what? Are you gonna hold my hand?”
“Need me to?” he asks right back.
It’s so annoying, how he makes that question sound sincere rather than mocking. He seriously thinks I’d hold his hand? That I can’t take care of myself? Between this guy and my dad, I’m so fed up with people thinking so little of my capabilities. “I don’t need my hand held. I don’t need you following me. In case you haven’t noticed in your short time here, there ain’t a lick of crime that ever happens in this town. What are you afraid will happen to me? Huh? Someone gonna pop out from behind a tree and shout ‘boo!’ at me? Gonna get mugged by a scrawny thirteen-year-old hitting up the arcade to break his Pac-Man record? Shoot, I’m the one who lives here, not you. You’re the one who needs an … an escort.” I snort, having made myself laugh, then hop off the curb and head on across the street, figuring us to be finished.