Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Little dickhead!
Diego’s head snaps up from the bench press. “What do you mean you gave Ryann a ride home?”
“It was cold, she’d just been dumped—by me, I might add—did you want me to leave her standing out in the street, too?”
There. That ought to shut him up.
“You gave her a ride home after I broke up with her?”
“You’re giving yourself way too much credit for doing nothing.”
Honestly, I’ve never met anyone so naïve.
“She was my girlfriend.”
“Dude, you paid him to break up with her. What do you care?”
Drake, bless his heart. He might be a shithead, but at least he’s got my back. And speaking of dudes who have my back, Diego is my teammate—one of the reasons I agreed to help him out. Shouldn’t he climb down off my nuts about it and not ride my ass?
Diego needs to grow the fuck up and stop acting immature. Besides, what does he care? He broke up with her.
“You haven’t even asked me how she took it,” I remind him. “You haven’t even asked how it went.”
Diego sits up on the bench, wrapping a towel around his neck and wiping the sweat from his brow so he can give me his full attention—attention I do not want.
“How did she take it?”
“Fine.” I pause. “In fact, I don’t think she gave a shit, if I’m being honest.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I laugh. “I’m being serious, dude. Why would I lie?”
“Because you’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, an asshole you asked for a favor.”
The rest of the group stares on.
“But…I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t she give a shit?”
“Maybe she didn’t actually like you.” I shrug, about to take another dig. “Pretty sure she was about to dump you. You just beat her to it.”
“Shut up.” His laugh is hollow, smile forced.
“Dead serious.”
“How the hell would you know?”
“Because in the car on the way home, we barely talked about you. All she did was call me an asshole, ask what would make a guy like me get involved. Not a tear shed, my friend.”
I leave out the part where I told Ryann he’d done her a favor and she didn’t look broken up about being dumped. She looked way too sensible for any kind of theatrics.
Sensible.
Responsible.
Probably someone he could have taken home to his mama, had he given her more of a chance. There’s a small part of me that suspects no woman will ever hold Diego’s attention…
He just hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.
six
ryann
“You cross my mind on Thursdays. That’s usually when I take out the garbage.”
– Ryann Winters in a text she never sent Diego
“What’s my baby girl doing?”
The sound of my mom’s voice on the other end of the line puts a smile on my face, the way it does every single time, unless I’m in trouble—which almost never happens.
I can hear something in the background that sounds suspiciously like a pan being set on the stove top.
“Did you just have dinner?”
“We did.”
“What was it?”
“Eh, eggs. I know it’s boring, but Dad and I both had late sessions and I didn’t feel like making anything else. We settled on breakfast for dinner.”
Oh. If she’d said they were having pot roast or chicken cordon bleu, I might have been jealous and had FOMO. And let’s not forget about the fact that she and Dad are separated yet still living under the same roof as if I were still a child and they didn’t want to shatter the bubble they created for me.
“What’d you have for dinner, sweetie?”
“I ate at work. Kyle made me a burger and fries.”
“Remind me again—do you have to pay for food while you’re at work?”
“Not if I’m working. Only if I’m dining in with friends or whatever.”
“Huh.” She makes a humming sound. “That’s nice.”
My mother doesn’t entirely love the fact that I’m waitressing; she’d rather have me working on campus in the psychology or science department, or applying to be a teacher’s assistant or at least something academic. As supportive as my parents are of everything I do, there is always an undercurrent that I could do better, could challenge myself more.
Mom also doesn’t love the fact that I’m majoring in mass communication, but again: supportive. It’s in her DNA to be accepting as long as it’s not illegal.
“How is Diego?” She’s always asking for updates.
“So.” I pause. “I have news.”
“Oh?” I picture Mom’s brows rising at my pre-announcement. “What kind of news?”
“We’re not seeing each other anymore.”
“Really?”
She doesn’t press, simply waits for me to give her the details she knows are coming.
“He broke things off.”
“Why?”
“Okay, so technically, he paid someone to break things off.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line as she decides what to say next.
I spare her the trouble. “He paid a teammate fifty bucks to break up with me and the guy ambushed me outside of work.”