Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Not a chance,” I cut in firmly. “That money’s for you.”
“But, George—”
“No buts. You’re going to college, Lettie.” My ride pulls up to the Blake estate. “Listen, I gotta go. I wanted to call to make sure everything’s good—that you’re good.”
I hold my breath, waiting, listening for any indication that something is off.
“I’m good. Don’t worry about me.”
“Call you this weekend?”
“Yeah. Love you, Georgie.”
“Love you too, Lettie.”
I hang up, my chest tightening even more. Our call was supposed to make me feel better, but it had the opposite effect. I check in on Lettie every chance I get, terrified that one day she won’t pick up. Or worse, that she will, and I’ll hear something in her voice that tells me he’s finally turned his rage on her. Bill has never dared to lay a hand on her like he did my mom and me. If I ever get wind he’s touched a single hair on her head, I swear to God, I’ll kill him myself.
I step out of the Uber, my gaze flicking to Noah’s car parked beside me. The urge to drag a key down the side of it flares, but I shove it down and force myself to head inside. The house is quiet—too quiet. Not wanting to run into Noah, I move quickly, grabbing a water bottle and a banana from the kitchen, and slip up the stairs, shutting myself in my room.
I peel off my clothes and slide a T-shirt over my head before sinking onto the bed and pulling the covers over me. My fingers reach for the book on my nightstand, flipping it open without absorbing the words. It’s a distraction—just something to occupy my hands, to keep my mind from spiraling.
But it’s no use. My thoughts circle right back to today. To Jackson. Every touch, every look—it all lingers, igniting something I don’t want to name. I haven’t fully processed what happened, but I also can’t stop thinking about it.
It feels dangerously familiar. Like Mr. Bishop all over again. An older man I should stay away from. Off-limits, yet magnetic. The kind of man who becomes a challenge the second he shows even a flicker of interest. And now, the past and present are beginning to blur in ways that make my skin prickle.
It had all started innocently enough then, too.
Mr. Bishop would call on me in class more than the others, even when I wasn’t raising my hand. At first, I thought he was doing it to see if I was paying attention. However, it continued to happen, and I began to notice the way his gaze would linger a second too long.
Then came the requests, his voice lowering like we were sharing something just between us.
“Georgia, can you stay after class for a moment?”
“Would you mind helping me organize these papers?”
“I need an extra hand setting up for the next lesson.”
Nothing blatantly inappropriate. Just enough to make me wonder if I was imagining it.
Maybe if I had let it go, chalked it up to overthinking—if it hadn’t been for the way his fingers had brushed mine when I handed him something or the slow drag of his eyes when I leaned over his desk.
It wasn’t obvious. But it was enough. Enough to make my heart race. Enough to make me crave the attention. Enough to make me want to push, test, and see just how far those innocent moments could go before they turned into something else.
And they did.
Then, one reckless night in the empty school parking lot changed everything. We were careless. Desperate. Caught up in something we couldn’t control—or maybe didn’t want to.
And when it was over, my world flipped upside down.
Losing him devastated me. He was the only person who had ever made me feel wanted or shown me real affection. And in the end, my reckless need for danger cost him everything. His job. His reputation. His entire future was wiped out in an instant.
My mother was so ashamed she pulled me from school without a second thought, transferring me somewhere new like that would erase what happened. Bill, of course, had his own version of events where I was to blame.
I was too provocative. Too tempting. I had probably seduced him.
Everything about me was scrutinized and torn apart. The way I dressed. The way I carried myself. That my body had developed faster than it should have. It was all my fault.
And when Bill’s open palm struck my face, my mother didn’t stop him. She just stood there, watching. In her eyes, I deserved it. Deserved the shame I had brought onto our family.
I can still feel the sting, the way my cheek burned long after the slap, even as I lay curled up in bed, sobbing into my pillow. But worse than the pain was the image seared into my memory—Henry’s face as they escorted him out of the school, his expression a mix of shock and regret.