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’m so fucking sorry I made you feel manipulated and violated. God, the mere thought of that makes me want to vomit. That’s the last thing I want you to feel.
And I’m sorry if I made you feel like I took you for granted throughout our friendship. If I made you feel like you were the girl on my sidelines. If you felt like you were some kind of backup plan.
I can be fucking self-involved and self-absorbed and selfish, and I can see how those piss-poor qualities could make you feel all the things you did. I took for granted that you were always there. Not because I didn’t care, but you were a given for me. You were always it, Julia.
You’re still it for me. You’re still the love of my life, even if it’s not reciprocated on your end.
In my mind, no one compares to you. No one is more important than you.
I know you’re with Drew now. I know you’re in a relationship that’s possibly getting serious, and I’m not trying to ruin something if it’s making you happy. Because Julia, I really, truly want you to be happy. I wish more than anything I could be the guy who makes you happy, but I’ll gladly take you being happy with someone else if it means you’re safe and protected and content.
I miss you. I miss us.
I miss my best friend. And I hope one day she’ll be able to forgive me.
I hope one day that she’ll want to be my best friend again.
I know it’s not much, but I’ve been working really hard to learn where to put commas and asking myself the hard questions the old me would never ask.
The one question that comes up every day is simple: “Do you love her, Ace?”
And the answer is always the same.
“More than myself. More than existence. More than the stars.”
I hope one day, when you ask yourself the hard questions, your answer says you love me too.
Love, Ace
Tears fill my eyes and hope blooms in my chest.
Maybe we’re fixable after all.
Ace
I’m not proud of how I’ve been living.
There’s a half-eaten takeout sandwich on my coffee table that’s probably growing a new strain of penicillin. My couch has swallowed me whole, and my TV has been playing a loop of old basketball highlights for…a while. It’s dark. Maybe on purpose. And I might smell curdled milk on the shirt I haven’t washed in I don’t know how long.
I’ve only left my apartment once today to grab some food. But the entire time, I couldn’t get the vision of Julia and Drew—or the fact that they’re supposedly moving in together—out of my fucking head.
When the door buzzes, I ignore it.
When it buzzes again, I groan and shout toward no one, “I’m not dead, but I’m working on it!”
It buzzes forty times in a row, so finally giving in, I shuffle over and crack open the door, only to be met by the smug, judgmental smirk of my father.
“Well, shit,” Thatch says, stepping inside uninvited. “You look like warm sushi in a dog’s asshole.”
I try to shove the door closed as I reply, “Come back later. After someone in the building calls about a smell coming from my apartment that’s my rotting corpse.”
He stops the door with his big clown foot and shoves his way inside, and I wrap the blanket I’m wearing as a cloak around myself tighter.
“Holy fuck, Acer.” He sniffs the air and instantly recoils. “What actually died in here?”
“My will to live?”
Thatch kicks aside a pile of laundry with his boot. “Christ. You’re sulking.”
“I’m not sulking.”
He raises a brow. “You’re sulking with texture. C’mon, get dressed.”
“What?”
“We’re going out. I made a dinner reservation.”
I look down at myself. “You think I’m in any condition to be seen in public?”
“You’re almost twenty years old. Being disgusting is literally your whole personality,” he says. “And here—wear this.” He throws something at me. I catch it. It’s a cardigan. Like…a varsity-style letterman sweater.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s vintage,” he shrugs. “Your mom bought it. Said it would make your shoulders look broad. Get your ass dressed.”
I don’t know why I listen to him. But twenty minutes later, we’re in his Range Rover, pulling up in front of—
“…Gamma Pi?” I blink. “You said dinner.”
“This is dinner.”
“This is a fucking frat house.”
“Don’t be such a prude.”
“You brought me to a frat Halloween party?”
He throws the car in park and unbuckles. “You need to get out of your own head. Drink something that isn’t carbonated depression. Maybe touch a boob. Whatever kids do these days.”
“I’m not going to a frat party with you.”
“No, you’re not.” He grins. “You’re going by yourself.”
He walks around the back of the SUV, opens the trunk, and pulls out a full gorilla suit.
I stare. “What the fuck?”
He starts putting it on.