Chapters (50)
- Cover
- Praise for the novels of
- Titles by Jennifer Probst
- Dedication
- Epigraphs
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER THIRTY
- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
- NOTE TO READER
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Readers Guide
- QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
- Excerpt from THE SECRET LOVE LETTERS OF OLIVIA MORETTI
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“I just—I’m not ready for that. Yet.” My cheeks burned. My virginity had never bothered me before, but I figured he’d laugh or make a teasing remark.
Instead, he nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s cool.”
I relaxed, twisting my fingers. “You think?”
“Yeah. You should be able to do stuff on your own terms. I guess most people I know aren’t like you.”
“I’m not a prude or anything,” I rushed to say.
“I know. I like that you’re different. Most of my friends need sex and drugs to cope with shit, you know?”
I cocked my head, fascinated by his deep, thoughtful voice and the way he looked at me. “Like what?”
“Pain. Too much fucking pain.”
The darkness was back, shadowing his face. I didn’t know what he was thinking about, but it was bad. I wanted to go and take his hand, but I felt frozen, not sure what to do. He got up and pocketed his phone, then motioned toward the door. “We better get downstairs. Freda will probably be looking for you.”
“Yeah.”
I followed him out, my emotions sharp and jagged like cut glass. The rest of the night was good and we climbed back in the car at exactly ten thirty to get me back by eleven. I sang along with Freda, and Connor passed around a joint, and it was pretty much perfect until the cop pulled us over for speeding.
I figured we still had a shot, but he smelled the weed and found the bag stashed in the glove compartment.
Everything turned bad from there.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Francesca
I’m not sure when I realized I wasn’t like other girls. I never got giggly over boys or spent endless hours dreaming about Tim Collins—the hot jock the entire school adored—asking me to prom. I only remember trying hard to care about all the things my friends did, like makeup and kissing and being noticed by the popular crowd. But even back then, I think I realized I was missing some type of gene that made me feel romantic love. I didn’t understand romance novels, poetry, or chick flicks, and was more interested in those underdog movies like Cool Runnings or Rocky or even Wall Street (I loved Gordon Gekko and think he got a bad rap).