Page 77 of Holding On To Good

Verity: What?

Reed: Why didn’t you give up?

Verity: Jennings don’t quit. Not when they want something.

Reed: And you wanted to text me?

Verity: So I could get your mailing address.

God. It was like he didn’t even pay attention.

Reed: Right. For that thank-you card.

She nodded which wasn’t exactly helpful, as he couldn’t see her, but whatever. And don’t think she missed that snide tone, either. The words even looked smirky.

And she did so totally plan on sending him a thank-you. She just hadn’t gotten around to actually purchasing the card yet.

Verity: Luckily, I remembered seeing you and Danielle Freeman talking at a party last year.

Talking. Making out in the corner. Same thing, right?

Except for some stupid, crazy, irrational reason, remembering it now caused her stomach to cramp in a way it hadn’t when she’d witnessed the event over Christmas break.

Because as every straight female knew, boys—most especially ones who looked like Reed Walsh—could sure do a number on a girl’s head.

Even the smartest of smart girls.

Verity: So I stopped at the florist where she works this afternoon. Danielle didn’t have your number—or wasn’t willing to share it—but said she’d heard you and McKenna Oswald dated.

Verity: Danielle didn’t have McKenna’s number, either—or again, wasn’t willing to share it, which I can respect—so I went to Brighter Things, where McKenna’s best friend, Payton, works.

Verity: Payton told me McKenna is a lifeguard at the country club, so I had to get Emory to go to the club’s pool since she’s a member and I’m not. And that’s where McKenna gave Emory your number, who gave it to me.

McKenna had also told Emory that Reed worked at DiFonzio’s Auto Garage during the day and The Cock-Eyed Chameleon bar most nights.

God bless McKenna and her love of sharing every thought that popped into her head.

Verity: And that’s how I really got your number.

She’d gone to a lot of trouble. Had traipsed across town—like literally traipsed as she couldn’t use her car for two weeks and refused to ride her bicycle lest someone asked her why she wasn’t driving. She’d asked other girls about him. Had asked Emory, who she’d never, ever, kept a secret from before in her life, to seek out McKenna for the information without telling her why. It was a testament to their friendship that Emory had done so, no questions asked.

Thank God. If she had asked, Verity had no idea what she would’ve said. Probably something along the lines of:

So, hey, last night I caught sight of a shirtless Reed Walsh and now I am a slave to my hormones and can’t stop thinking about him.

Sounded about right.

People knew she’d been asking for his number. The rumors would soon be flying—if they weren’t already. They would say there was something going on between her and Reed.

Or worse. That she was chasing him.

Verity held the pillow to her face to muffle her groan. Kept it there. Not long enough to suffocate herself or anything. Just long enough to perhaps cause her to black out from lack of oxygen. Maybe it’d cause amnesia, which would come in really handy right about now.

Hey, a girl could dream.

But then her phone vibrated and she pulled her face free to check the message, all her brain cells and memory still intact.

Reed: We don’t date.

---