Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 748(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“Nadine.” Professor Winslow looks directly at her. “The point of a group project is to work as a group. To work as a team. Should I be concerned that you didn’t pull your weight here?”
“No. I swear, I did the work,” she protests, sweating now. “I had a hard time typing because of my cast, but I did my share of the work.”
Professor Winslow moves his attention to both Scottie and me, and for as much as I want to show Nadine’s ass, I don’t. I leave it up to Scottie.
“It was a group effort.”
Clearly, I wish Scottie would have narc-ed, but I understand why she doesn’t. She has to deal with Nadine at cheerleading on a daily basis for what will likely be her entire college career. The long-term consequences of selling her out in our freshman English class are extremely prohibitive.
Professor Winslow is skeptical, but he doesn’t push it, accepting Scottie’s paper while I tuck mine back into my backpack. “Okay, guys. Can’t wait to read it.”
“Thanks Professor Winslow,” Nadine gladly crows, despite not having a single clue what the hell the paper is even about.
“Any big plans for winter break?” Professor Winslow asks, his eyes, unfortunately, on me. “Getting out of the city to spend some time with family, Finn?”
For the first time in what feels like forever, Scottie actually looks at me. Direct and without ire. It’s rewarding and disconcerting at the same time.
Besides me and my deadbeat dad, she’s the only person who knows Ty Winslow is my brother, and I know without question she’s kept it that way.
I know she has to be curious, has to wonder what the hell I’m going to do about my big secret. But that makes two of us. I still don’t have a single fucking clue what I’m going to do.
“Yeah, something like that,” I mutter, at a loss for any other option.
Professor Winslow smiles at all three of us. “Have a good break, guys. You are officially free to go, and I’ll see you next year.” He winks at his joke, like every token old person on the entirety of campus has done for the whole last week after saying the same exact thing, and I start gathering my things. Scottie is faster, though, and she’s out of her seat and out of the lecture hall before I even have my backpack zipped.
She’s keeping her word and leaving me alone.
Which is good. It’s how things should have gone between us from the start.
I just wish it didn’t have to suck so fucking much.
Friday December 13th
Finn
“I’m all in,” Ace’s dad declares, and his eyes are stone-cold as he stares down the only person still left in the game—Ace. “You in, Acer?”
Ace doesn’t respond, and I eye the cards on the table, trying to guess what Ace and Thatch might have in their hands. I folded after Ace bet $25 in chips on the flop. Kline Brooks, Wes Lancaster, and two guys from the book club I met at Julia’s party—Milo Ives and Caplin Hawkins—folded when Thatch bet $50 on the turn.
The five cards that sit before us consist of an ace of clubs, ten of hearts, nine of spades, five of spades, and nine of hearts.
I think the best possible hand someone could have right now is four of a kind, but that would mean they have the nine of clubs and the nine of diamonds sitting between their fingertips.
Next-best hands would include three of a kind with one nine, or a full house with one nine and a five, ace, or ten. Not so great but not terrible hands would include two pair, or a single pair with a king high.
I’m almost positive there aren’t any straight or flush opportunities sitting on the table, but I’m not exactly a Texas Hold’em expert like Ace claims to be, and I’m not the best at math. Everything I’m thinking could be complete bullshit, to be honest.
“You gonna rumble, son?” Thatch taunts again, chewing on the butt end of his unlit cigar. Cassie came in just as he was about to light it and shut him down real quick. She wasn’t mean, though—just whispered something in his ear that had him mumbling under his breath about titties for the next five minutes.
Ace still hasn’t said a word, but his eyes are locked on his dad. His eyes narrow as he searches his face. Thatch grins. Ace looks down at his cards again before running a hand through his hair.
“C’mon, Acer. What’s it going to be?” Thatch continues talking. “You gonna hold your nuts to the fire or let your mom honey-roast ’em?” Clearly, the name of his game is shit-talking.
Both Milo and Wes chuckle while Kline smirks over his glass of scotch. Caplin Hawkins, on the other hand, is almost just as much of a shit-talker as Ace’s dad. Even being out of this hand, he can’t stand not to be included.