Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“I do want pretzels,” I say, though I know it’s just an excuse. Pretzels I can ask for. A second chance I’m still not sure about. Maybe I won’t be able to forgive him. Maybe he won’t be able to forgive me.
But at least we can share a bag of pretzels and a sunset and hopefully part ways with peace instead of anger.
Reaching for my phone while my courage holds, I text Sam—If you’re still downstairs and want to talk, meet me on the roof in ten minutes. Evie will buzz you up. And bring burnt pretzels, the kind from Pennsylvania in the paper bag. They have them on the third aisle in the bodega, by the good coffee.
Less than a second later, Sam texts back—Will do and see you then. Thank you, Jess. So much.
My thumb hovers over the message, but in the end, I don’t respond. I’m not sure if he should be thanking me for anything yet. Still, his obvious relief sends a wisp of smoky hope floating through my chest.
But is it the beginnings of a flame or the last gasp of a nearly tamped-out campfire?
I don’t know yet, but…it looks like I’m about to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sam
All the way up the seven flights to the roof, my stomach is a caldron full of acid and my pulse stutters wildly in my throat. I’ve never been this nervous, not even during my initial meeting with my angel investors my junior year of college.
There was never any doubt in my mind that the world needed Best Nest and that I’d find the funding to launch it somewhere. If my first batch of potential investors were too short-sighted to see the potential in my app, I would just keep taking meetings until I found people who were on the same page.
But with Jess…
I’ve fucked this up so completely—not once, but twice. First, by ghosting her when we were kids, then by being a control freak.
But I understand how I screwed up, and I’m determined not to be that person again. I don’t want to be a coward. I want to be the kind of brave, kind, trustworthy friend Jess deserves.
I want to be so much more than her friend but faced with the possibility of losing her completely or being downgraded to a bestie with no benefits, I’ll take the former any day. It would hurt like hell, knowing I’d never kiss her, hold her again, but at least I’d get to love her up close. I’d get to see her grow and find happiness and success and celebrate every victory with her.
I just want the best for her, even if that means eventually watching her fall in love with another man.
But fuck, the thought hurts…
It burns a scalding path from my core to my throat and back again.
Or maybe that’s the stomach acid.
Fuck. I should have bought some Tums at the bodega along with pretzels and a six-pack of beer, but it’s too late now. I’m at the top of the stairs, opening the door, squinting into the sun as I step out onto the Astroturf to find Jess standing at the brick wall surrounding the roof.
Her back is to me, but I know she’s heard the door open.
Her head turns ever so slightly to the right as she calls, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump. It’s safe to approach.”
“I’m more worried about you throwing me over,” I say as I cross the stiff, fake grass. I stop beside her, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’d deserve it.”
“No, you don’t. I’m still mad and hurt, but…” She glances at the bag in my hands. “Looks like more than pretzels in there.”
“I brought some beer, too. And…a surprise. That’s actually why I was at the bodega in the first place.” Setting the bag down at my feet, I pull the small cardboard envelope from inside, every cell in my body praying this was the right call. Passing it over to her, I say, “They’re one of the few places around here that still has a photo printing machine.”
Her brows dart up her forehead and her gaze flicks to meet mine for the first time, granting me a glimpse at the anxiety in her eyes. She’s nervous, too.
Taking that as a sign that hopefully she wants to find a way to make peace between us at least half as much as I do, I add, “It took me a while to find the pictures I wanted, or I would have been here sooner. I had some of them saved in my Dropbox, but some I had to hunt down on that old ‘best friend adventures’ blog we started in eighth grade.”
She blinks faster. “Oh my God, I haven’t thought of that in years. Is it still up online?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not live. One of us must have unpublished it at some point, but I could still log in to the dashboard. I remembered the password.”