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I nod and push down more tears. As cathartic as it might feel, I am so tired of crying.
“Come here.” Aaron leans back against the couch and pulls me against him. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. I wonder how many times in my life I’ve laid like this. In every stage of life, every stage of our friendship and relationship, this has always brought me comfort.
I rest against him and revel in the small amount of peace I feel amid the turmoil that is our relationship right now.
Chapter nine
Still Fucking It Up
Rae
Idon’tfuckingknow!I internally scream as I stare at my statistics textbook. Still, I attempt an answer at the last practice question before flipping to the back of the book to check my answers.
I got eight of ten…wrong.
Screw this.
Who needs statistics anyway?
I know how to figure out basic probability and the mean, median, and mode of things. I don’t need more than that. Seriously, I’m going into counseling. This is what calculators and computers are for. And even in the apocalypse without those things, I still don’t think statistics would be all that relevant.
So why do I need to take it?
No one knows. Probably because of the sadistic bastards at the New York State Department of Education. Or the State University of New York. Whichever bunch of assholes it is, I hate them, too.
I chuck my notebook and pencil in the textbook and slam it shut. That does absolutely nothing to quell my anger, so I purposely flip it onto the floor of the large study room I’m sitting alone in. It lands with a loud thunk.
Still doesn’t help.
I close my eyes and groan.
Then I hear a smooth voice behind me say, “Jeez, what’d the book ever do to you?”
I flash my eyes open and look up at Kevin.
I stare at his sexy brown eyes and then at his perfect soft lips.
He was a good kisser.
If I wasn’t such a mess, he’d be fun to kiss or maybe even date.
But alas, I’m emotionally fucked. And metaphorically fucked as well. Up the ass. By statistics.
“It’s not the book. It’s what it represents,” I huff.
Then I cross my arms over my chest and pout like the cranky little two-year-old I am.
Kevin laughs and drops onto the edge of the chair kitty-corner from me. “Why do I have a feeling that pout makes guys stop what they’re doing and give you whatever you want?”
Well, one guy in particular, maybe.
I shrug. “I don’t use it on just anyone.”
I get the cocky smile. “Oh, so I’m special?”
My eyes narrow.
Nevermind. He’d piss me off if I dated him.
