Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Occasionally she’s not a troll.
Phoebe sighs as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. “Come on, Easton. I’m younger than you, but I’m not an idiot. I saw you kissing Harper.”
Her blunt admission is the last thing I need her spilling to my parents. I have to give her a peace offering to keep her quiet.
“I can confidently say that any chance I had with Harper is officially over. Do you want to see the proof?”
Phoebe nods fervently, eager to be included in my secrets.
I pull the letter from its hiding spot and unfold it. Phoebe may only be seven, but she is wise—so when her little eyeballs scan the letter, my heart flip-flops.
“What does it say?” Her brow is wrinkled.
I forget that she’s still learning to read and definitely does not need me crushing her dreams about love and life and romance by telling her what is actually written on these pages.
“We were supposed to go to prom together—she’d rather I go with someone else.”
“But she wrote ‘I like you.’ See? Right there.” My sisters little tiny index finger taps on the paper, bull’s-eye on the sentence that says SURPRISE, I LIKE YOU! in bold letters. “See?”
I do see. “It’s not important anymore. She thinks I like someone else.”
Phoebe consider this information, perky nose scrunched up. “Do you want to go with the other girl?”
“I’m not sure.”
Two weeks ago I would have jumped at the chance the same way I jumped at the opportunity to take Maddie on a date. But after that ride in the car? After everything that’s gone on between Harper and me? Not sure.
I blink at Phoebe, caught off guard by her question. “I’m not sad about Harper’s letter,” I say—but my voice wavers enough for her to catch it, the smart little shit.
Her round face lights up with triumph. “You’re lying. I know it,” she says, poking my chest. “Right here. Sad heart.”
“Sad heart?” I echo, rolling my eyes. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“I’m very wise for my age,” she says. “And your sad heart means you want to go to the dance with Harper, not Maddie.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already wagging her finger directly in my face.
“You’re thinking too much.” She wags her finger again. “You always do that.”
“What does that mean?” I grab her finger to stop her from poking me in the forehead.
“It means you make everything all twisty in your brain,” she explains. “Just tell Harper, ‘I like you, too,’ and boom! Problem solved.”
“It’s not that easy, Phoebe.” I sigh, staring at the ceiling. “That solves nothing.”
“Or,” she says, “you’re just a chicken.”
“I’m not a chicken,” I say, glaring at her.
“You are too!” She makes a clucking sound that sounds nothing like a chicken. “You’re afraid to tell Harper you like her, and now you’re grumpy she thinks you like Maddie and Maddie is your date.”
Wow. That’s all very…
Accurate.
“That’s not—” I stop, realizing I can’t argue with the truth. Instead, I let out a very loud, dramatic sigh. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Phoebe rolls her eyes like a tiny adult. “Boys are so dumb sometimes.”
Can’t argue with that, either.
“Says the kid who still thinks broccoli is poisonous,” I shoot back.
Her hands go to her hips. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Not.”
“Easton! You can’t go to the dance with a girl you don’t like!”
“I never said I didn’t like Maddie Miller! She’s beautiful and popular and…”
And.
And.
“Call Harper right now,” my sister demands. “Or write her a letter—but use prettier paper. Hers was kinda boring.”
“It’s not that simple.” I smile, rubbing the back of my neck. “What if she only wrote that letter to make me feel guilty?”
Phoebe gives me a pitying look, like she’s talking to someone who’s completely hopeless. “If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have written the letter in the first place. Duh. Stop self-sabotaging.”
“Maybe she changed her mind,” I mutter, slumping back into the cushions.
“She didn’t,” Phoebe asserts, as if she’s some kind of expert on teenage-girl feelings. “She probably thinks you don’t like her back.”
I stare at her, wondering how my seven-year-old sister got so good at reading people. “And how do you know all this?”
“I watch a lot of TV. Like, a lot,” she explains, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world, and I have to wonder if I should talk to my mom about limiting her screen time. “Plus, I’m really smart.”
“Uh-huh.” I shake my head but can’t stop the small smile tugging at my lips. “You’re something, all right.”
Phoebe grins, clearly taking that as a compliment. “So are you gonna tell her or not?”
“Not,” I admit, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.
“If you don’t, Harper’s gonna think you don’t care. And then at prom, she’s going to dance with someone else. Someone cooler.”