Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Have you gotten your email yet?
Elation for him takes a nosedive as unease curls around me, thick and heavy. My throat tightens as if needles are pricking it. We applied to Harvard Law on the same day, both of our laptops on our knees as we sat on his bed at the Kappa house and simultaneously pushed the button. He made a big production out of it, giving me a kiss for luck afterward. He even bought us matching crimson and black Harvard shirts he ordered online. That shirt now hangs in my closet, taunting me.
My LSAT score is in the top ten percent of the country, but I don’t have the volunteer activities, the self-made charity foundations, or the social clubs. Between my classes and waiting tables, I barely have time to date Donovan.
He’s been planning for Harvard since he enrolled at Braxton College. His freshman year he established a charity to donate tennis shoes to needy children in Honduras. Genius. He invested five grand into the website, rented a storage facility, hired a small crew to ship them out, all while raising money for sponsors. Shoes for Children has been going strong for three and a half years. There’s no telling how much of his own money he’s put into it. Because his family is wealthy, I remind myself. They’re Harvard alumni. That had to have helped his application.
Ana? You there?
A lump of cement swirls in my gut as I stare at his words.
My rejection email came five days ago. Not even waitlisted.
My official letter arrived the next day, like I needed physical confirmation of being a reject. A pit of emptiness pulls at me, and I shove it away before its tentacles can dig too deep.
“You couldn’t afford Harvard anyway,” I mutter under my breath. With tuition and living expenses, the grand total came to ninety-eight thousand dollars a year. My heart dips at the thought of paying off an almost-half-a-million-dollar degree. If it wasn’t for my scholarship at Braxton, I’d never be able to pay the fifty grand a year here.
Ana?
I take a big breath, ignoring the tightening of my chest. Of course I’m happy for Donovan. Harvard is his dream.
No word yet, I reply, adding a thumbs-up emoji.
I should tell him. I really should.
You’ll get in. I just know it. Wish I could see you tonight to celebrate, but I’ll be deep in a research paper at the library. Toga party Friday?
I blink. Really? That’s five days from now. Surely he wants to see me before then? I must be misunderstanding him.
It’s just…
We didn’t see each other this weekend because he drove to Atlanta to see his family—without me—which is absolutely cool. I had to work at The Truth Is Out There. “And his parents think you’re a gold digger,” I say to myself.
So. Yeah.
His family has generational wealth, and while I’m not destitute, I didn’t grow up with Rembrandts on the wall either. This past summer I was there for his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary gala. The place settings at the table featured countless plates, forks, spoons, and crystal glasses. The flower arrangements were three feet tall. I legit had to look around them to see Donovan—who wasn’t sitting next to me but across the table next to an eligible girl from his parent’s circle of friends. My retro yellow velvet dress didn’t fit in with the black cocktail dresses the other women wore. My black thigh-high heeled boots were cheap pleather. My lavender hair made everyone squint.
His grandmother passed me in the hall before dinner, raked her eyes over me, and curled her lip. Dear, the catering staff stays in the kitchen, and shouldn’t you pull your hair up and wear something more appropriate? Then she asked me to refresh her champagne.
The socialite who sat next to me during dinner went on and on about her daughter’s debutante ball while the man on the other side of me (her husband) rested his hand on my back every time he mentioned one of his vacation homes or his investment portfolio, which was a lot. Donovan wouldn’t meet my gaze across the table, and an anxious feeling began to grow and grow and grow. Short story: I drank a little too much champagne, ate tiramisu with an oyster fork, then asked for A.1. Steak Sauce for my filet.
You’d have thought I murdered someone the way his mom gaped at me.
Cold December wind whips my hair around my face, obscuring my view as I grip my phone. My shoulders slump as my fingers hover over my cell, waiting for a text from him—the one he needs to send right freaking now.
I wait a full minute. Crickets.
I jerk up my backpack and walk.
He didn’t mention my birthday.
Stomping up the steps, I chew on my bottom lip as I wrestle with my emotions. He is forgetful. On top of his classes and volunteer work, he’s also the vice president of the Kappa fraternity.