Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 85(@200wpm)___ 68(@250wpm)___ 57(@300wpm)
I lied and told my parents they were allowing all art students to come to campus early to start preparing for the art exhibit. I knew they wouldn’t check to ensure I was telling the truth, although secretly, I had hoped for some level of interest. You know, prove they loved me, but nothing.
So, I packed everything I knew I couldn't live without because I was never returning. I had most of it sent to the school and the rest I took to May’s house. I alternated between her and June since they didn't live far apart, and off and on, the rest of them came down to meet me. It was amazing to feel a part of something.
Pops came down with his Hailey (that’s what I call my bio dad), and to have him hug me and be genuinely happy to see me and a bit emotional, to be honest, it was…well let’s just say we shared a tissue box.
Standing outside, taking in my new life, I can’t help but think how sad I am that I can’t share it with my parents.
Chapter One
September
I have always been hard on myself, self-critical, and unable to give myself grace. That is a symptom of being raised with people who see only what is lacking in you.
I have been staring at the painting I am planning to submit to the school art council for approval for hours. Even though I know it is done and there is nothing I could add to it to improve it, I can't bring myself to wrap it up and prepare it for submission.
When unsure about something, I seethe, ruminate, and check out everything around me. I admit this is not smart, but that is my process.
“Are you just going to look at it?” My first reaction is to shiver due to the proximity of the voice, but then, literally milliseconds after, I remember to jump because I am startled. My body falls off the stool, bumping into the easel. I watch in horror when my paint cans teeter at the same time as my painting begins to fall. Shocked and panicked, I gasped, putting my hands to my mouth when an angel on paint-saving wings, Trevor, the TA in my history of art class, catches my painting right before it becomes color soup.
“Oh my gosh. Thank you so much.” I say to him, my heart hammering in my chest because all of this was just too much for a couple of seconds it took to happen.
“It was my pleasure, September.” Holy heck, he knows my name. I mean, he is the TA in my class, but he has to have how many students between my class and the other history class? But he remembers my name. I should be looking at him, right? I should be talking to him or… heck, I don’t know. I have zero experience with this. Did I mention I have been crushing on him since the first day of class? I have always been shy, and age seems to have done nothing to change that. Hence, I am standing before the most gorgeous guy I have ever seen and looking down. “Are you going to look at me, Red?” his finger lifts my chin.
Realizing what he called me, I put my hand on my hip and scowled at him because I hated that nickname, and he was one to talk. “Really? You wanna call me Red? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
There is something to be said for a smile making a man sexier than he already is. On the first day of class, I walked in, head down, checking my satchel and ensuring I had everything in it. I tripped at least five times before the deepest, hottest voice I have ever heard washed over me. I looked up, and I swear I thought I had jumped back like thirty years because the man in front of me looked just like a younger, well, much younger Kenneth Branagh. Did I mention I love Kenneth Branagh?
He stood before the projector, his red hair and light skin mimicking mine. My eyes tracked his every move; he has been my spank bank man ever since.
Trevor throws his head back and laughs; this throaty, Adam's apple-bobbing laugh sends goosebumps up my arms. “There she goes, " he says, looking me square in the eyes. Now, do you want to tell me what you're thinking?” I turn to look back at my painting and frown.
“I’m just not sure if this is good enough. It seems too…radical for the exhibit, don’t you think?” I can see him assessing it, and I want him to like it more than I thought I would. I see his critical dissection much like how he does in class when he leads the lesson, which makes me nervous.