Chapters (46)
After a long while, my fingers get so hot from the sun beating down and my phone’s battery working overtime that I put it back in my pocket. Graduation Girl eyes me. It’ll be worth it to get kicked out if I can just get her number. Hell, even her name. “Hey,” I say.
She glares at me.
“I know. I know.” I knock it down to a whisper. “What if we played a game? You give me three letters of the alphabet to guess from, one of which is the first letter of your name. If I get it right in less than thirty tries, you have to come to my party.”
“That sounds like a terrible game.” This girl cuts no corners.
“You’re right. It does.” I nudge her shoulder. “At least I’m not our valedictorian, out here talking about how we’re all baby birds ready to leave the nest.”
“Did you watch his nose when he spoke?” She sounds kind of mischievous when she asks. Clearly, I’ve chosen a solid topic.
“Can’t say I was paying much attention to his nose, no. Why?”
“His nostrils always do this flapping thing every time he breathes.”
It’s not what I’m expecting her to say. I belly laugh. She wraps her hand around my forearm in a vice grip to silence me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, almost breaking. “How did you even notice that?”
“Steve Taggart is my archnemesis,” she answers in the most deadpan whisper I’ve ever heard. “Knowing everything about him used to be my life’s mission.”
She’s so close I can smell her again; this flowery, honey scent is wafting right up into my nostrils. I’m glad she seems to refuse to ever look at me because I might be doing the Steve Taggart thing too without even knowing it. “I think I need to make it my life’s mission to know more about you.”
What You Left Me
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About the Author
About the Author
Bridget Morrissey lives in Los Angeles, but proudly hails from Oak Forest, Illinois, a small yet mighty suburb just southwest of Chicago. When she’s not writing, she can be found coaching gymnastics, reading in the corner of a coffee shop, or headlining concerts in her living room. Visit her online at bridgetjmorrissey.com.
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