Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 129986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
“Sure. I’ll let you know if it changes, but I don’t think I have anything pressing tonight.”
“Good.” She leans in to give me a kiss. “I’ve gotta catch up with the girls. Let me know if you need anything, though, all right? Even if it’s just to bounce ideas. Don’t be afraid to talk to me about her. I’m not one of those clingy, jealous girlfriends; I’m happy to brainstorm with you. I’ll help you corner her if you need me to, or I guess back off a little if that helps. Just let me know what’s going on. If you don’t tell me what’s happening, I think nothing is, and you know me, I’m a woman of action.”
I crack a smile. “Noted. I’ll do better at keeping you in the loop from here on out.”
“Thank you.” She smiles. “That’s all I wanted.”
I watch her leave and my smile drops.
I’m glad that’s handled, but I’ve still got major fucking damage control to do.
Chapter twenty
Aubrey
I don’t turn my phone on again until late Tuesday morning.
I already told Mom I’m exhausted and need to take a day off from school to get some rest, so I don’t have to set an alarm or go to work.
After a while, disconnected from the little rectangle of technology that keeps me constantly threaded into other people’s lives, I find peace. It doesn’t matter that out there in the world around me is a revealing picture I never wanted anyone to see. Here, in the sanctuary of my house, all is as well as it can be.
That’s the reality I need to live in for a while. The one I was living in before Anae Richards slithered into my life.
Unfortunately, the moment I turn the phone back on, my peace bubble pops. I never have much action on my social media accounts since I rarely post anything, but today, I have quite a few notifications. Every new comment is some form of insult—body-shaming, name-calling, creative insinuations that I’m an ugly whore. It’s a great time.
Once I’ve deleted all the comments on my various socials, I go to my text messages. I’m already feeling icky from all the social media hate, and then I see I have a text from Dare, and that makes me kinda sad.
“She took the video down.”
The text gives me a small measure of relief, but considering all the hate I’ve deleted this morning, I know a lot of people already saw it—or maybe heard about it after it was taken down. Either way, the information (and the screenshots) are out there, and there’s nothing that can be done about it.
“Thanks,” I text back even though he sent it yesterday.
He texts right back. “How are you doing?”
“I’m great. Never been better. Someone wrote me a haiku! Want to read it?”
Without giving him time to answer, I paste in the creative insult someone anonymous internet person left on one of my photos last night.
Aubrey
By: Anonymous
A busy morning,
a nasty whorebag who sucks,
Her ass is ugly.
“Wow,” he texts back.
“Right? That’s an impressive amount of effort to put into an insult.”
“That’s what happens when you go to the smart school.”
Reluctantly, I crack a smile—the first one since all this crap happened.
He texts again before I can respond. “Want me to find ‘em and beat ‘em up for you?”
“Maybe. You can dunk their head in a toilet and give them a swirly.”
“Hang them up on the flagpole outside the school,” he adds. “Someone’s gotta punish them for telling lies like that about your ass.”
“But will you write them a clapback haiku for me? I feel that’s the true test.”
“I’m not much of a poet, but I’ll get my team of nerds on it, have them make a whole slew of haikus.”
I laugh. “You and your nerd army.”
“At your command, my queen,” he shoots back.
My smile fades a bit, but my tummy feels fluttery. “I’m not your queen,” I type back, surprised by how sad it makes me feel.
“You wanna be my princess? I can build you a tower to get you away from all these haiku-writing fiends.”
“On your prison island?”
“Naturally.”
“Maybe. Are you coming with me? Can we bring my mom? Are there restaurants? I have a lot of questions.”
Mom’s voice startles me and I nearly drop my phone. “What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing,” I say guiltily, fumbling to text back a quick, “gotta go,” to Dare. Returning my attention to Mom, I flash a smile and hope she doesn’t ask more questions. “You ready for brunch?”
She nods, but her gaze lingers on my phone. “Who were you talking to?”
“No one.”
Her lips tug up. “So, Chase Darington.”
“No? What? I mean, yeah, but why—”
Shit.
I abandon this sinking ship of a denial and stand. “I’m going to make French toast.”
___
It’s evening before I get a chance to get on my phone again. Usually, I’m on it off and on, but since I know the phone brings only misery today, it’s easy to leave it alone.