Page 49 of Breakaway Hearts

And the more I think she wants me too.

Chapter Nineteen

Madison

Strawberries

The words start to blur in my textbook, so I take out my laptop and try working on my article for the paper. Most of the debate was boring, which is slightly concerning, seeing as it’s what I’ll spend my life doing, but there was a round of cake vs. ice cream, and even as a lifelong ice cream lover, I might have changed sides halfway through opening arguments. The cake girl won the whole thing, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she becomes president someday. Or a cult leader. A nice one, where people are just happy. If that’s a thing?

Mom

How are classes? Mrs. Hargraves mentioned Jason is on the hockey team now

I was expecting this. I’m surprised we made it this far with her daily “Have an amazing day!” and my standard, “You too!” replies with a barrage of emojis, without her asking for details. I also text good night, so she can relax and sleep soundly, but I don’t really tell her about my day other than the amazing croissant Jay brought me, or the puppy she would find adorable, because whenever I talk about classes, she asks about the people in them, the ones I’m supposed to have befriended…but I don’t have any of those. And I’m not trying to change that, so we fight and she worries.

Me

Yeah, he’s killing it! Go Wolves!

I might be overselling it.

Mom

You never told me why he quit in the first place.

I thought your school loved him when you went to visit?

Me

I’ll have to ask him.

Mom

You don’t know?

Can I call you?

Me

I’m in the library. Maybe later?

Mom

Of course. Good Luck!

Me

Love you.

I put my phone down with a sigh as Owen Brooks slides into the seat in front of me.

“Mads.” He nods, then proceeds to take out textbooks and notebooks, which he places on the desk between us.

“There are literally a dozen other tables. Empty ones.”

“Exactly. You’re not sitting at any of them.”

I roll my eyes, especially after the smile he shoots me, like he knows exactly how hot he is, how it would be enough for any other girl to pull him into a private study room, but I purposely go back to my article, typing furiously so he won’t bother me. Half of it might be nonsense, like ‘I don’t know what to write’, but he doesn’t know that.