Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
I duck out of the room, slipping past a crowd of sweaty juniors dancing to a remix that would make my dad’s favorite movie, Dirty Dancing, look like an Amish after-school special.
Down the back hallway, I walk until I reach the keg room. Technically, it’s a converted laundry space with three tapped barrels, a fridge, and a fluorescent Pi Gamma sign.
I push the door open, and I’m relieved to find that it’s empty.
Thank fuck.
For the first time all night, I exhale.
It’s quiet in here. Just the soft thump of bass through the walls and the buzz of a broken ceiling light. The black-light paint on the walls is splattered like crime scene art—handprints, words, shapes, a glowing dick or two. But no one else is here. No eyes. No pressure. No need for me to pretend I’m happy and shit.
I lean back against the counter and let my head fall against the cabinets. My fingers tap the side of the empty cup.
I should feel good. I should feel electric.
But instead, all I can think about is Julia.
She was at Double C tonight with her meathead boyfriend. And I did everything in my power to keep my fucking distance. Though, it wasn’t easy because Julia is friends with everyone I’m friends with. The complications our rift has created feel endless.
I don’t know how long I stand in here by myself, but I don’t move from my perch until the door creaks open. I turn my head, expecting someone looking for beer, maybe one of the rugby guys yelling for a funnel, but instead, I’m face-to-face with Julia.
The second I see her, something sharp and breath-stealing catches in my chest.
Fuck, why does she have to be so beautiful?
Her blond hair is bright under the black light, and I know by the soft waves that hang down her shoulders she spent at least forty minutes curling it. Her blue eyes shimmer like fucking diamonds, and she has green and pink neon paint across her collarbone and down one arm.
She’s dressed in her favorite pair of Converse sneakers and an all-white dress, remnants of her tan from all the days we spent at the pool this summer still visible.
It’s as if the universe has taken up its own personal interest in my misery and is making damn sure Julia looks like a fucking angel.
The door has a mind of its own and slams shut behind her. She jumps a little, and it takes her a good twenty seconds to even realize I’m in the room.
Though, when we make eye contact, she stops.
We stare. Neither of us moves. Neither one of us says anything.
Fuck, Julia. What is happening to us? my mind screams. What does everything feel so fucking fucked?
I almost ask her just that, but two frat guys barge in behind her, yelling about someone named Crackers and a broken toilet seat. One of the idiots accidentally bumps into her shoulder, and she stumbles.
I’m on her in half a second, my arm around her waist and my hand on her elbow as I catch her before she falls.
She gasps, and her hands find my chest.
We don’t move. We don’t breathe. The fear of getting sucked back into the bleakness of our friendship’s black hole is too strong.
Her big blue eyes stare up at me. I brush the strand of hair from her cheek, and it’s as if I’ve touched a live wire. She doesn’t flinch or pull away, and my mind races with a million and one thoughts—sadness, relief, love, anger, want, desire, need. Everything I’ve been trying to bury all week.
Her lips are barely parted, and I’ve never been this close to her and wanted something more than I do right now.
I tilt my head a little, and my hand slides behind her neck. My thumb grazes her jaw, and she doesn’t pull away. Ever so slightly, she leans in, just barely, just enough.
My mouth is inches from hers. I could kiss her.
I should kiss her.
My heart punches at my ribs.
“Julia…” Her name cracks out of me, low and wrecked. It’s the first word I’ve spoken to her since I walked out of her apartment a week ago—the first word either one of us has spoken to each other in seven days.
I naïvely hope it conveys much more than its length. A paragraph, a page, a chapter—something, anything from my novel of bottomless grief.
I know it’s only a name.
But it’s her name. And I miss her more than life itself.
Julia
Ace’s eyes are wild and gentle and begging, and my heart’s pounding so loud I’m scared he can hear it.
I don’t move. I can’t move.
His gaze searches mine, silently asking me if he can kiss me again.
Can I? Should I? his eyes plead.
I hate myself for wanting him to so much, but God, I want it so badly it hurts.