College is coming soon, and Blake Warner is sure that his life is embedded into the dead-end that is Merritt Hills, Georgia. His mother has assured him millions of times, that money has nothing to do with where his future leads.
But whenever he lie...
| E X P E C T T H E U N E X P E C T E D | • • • 0 . 4
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Brooks felt stupid.
Stupid and most-definitely hungover. But stupid, above all. He clutched at his head, wondering how in hell he'd gotten back home, and in his bed. Had he driven? Because if he had, that was one secret he'd have to take to his grave, knowing his mother would have a literal heart attack.
He slid out of his covers, looking over at his bedside clock that read, 3:32 P. M. When reading the time, his eyes bulged out his head, knowing that his mother and father would have a lecture prepared once he even stepped a foot downstairs.
Good, polite southern boys don't go out and party, and they definitely don't sleep past noon.
Brooks unplugged his cellphone from the charger, frowning at the messages coursing through his screen. He scrolled, reading each one with caution and expectancy.
Jackson F. 7:30 A. M. I cannot believe you went partying last night, with Blake Warner, of all people!
Jackson F. 7:40 A. M. What the hell, Brooks? Now you're ignoring me? Real mature.
Brooks shook his head, the guilt and sorrow filling him up to the brim. He knew making that deal with Blake would sooner or later come to bite him in the ass, but still—he found himself incapable of being able to say no to him.
But Brooks knew what Jackson would say, if he found out about Brooks' infatuation with Blake.
Don't be an idiot, Brooks. He's a horrible person, and when was the last time he was actually nice to you? Oh, wait—never.
But still, Brooks found himself in this familiar-ish situation with Blake, that he hadn't known would be so problematic, but if he had no doubt that he'd decline.
He slumped back against his sheets, a deep sigh lifting itself from his chest, as his head backtracked to his previous conversation with Blake.
"Alright, so, I propose the idea of us trying not kill each other for the next three months. Meaning, we hang out. I mean, you weren't so bad or annoying tonight, and try and tell me that I'm bad company."
Brooks remembers Blake's enticing eyes, that had his drunken state, blushing, stuttering, and blowing the entire ordeal out of proportion.
Blake watched Brooks debate his options, as he bit instinctively at his bottom lip. The slight movement reminds Blake of whenever Brooks would would be under pressure, or whenever he'd receive a compliment.
"Fine," Brooks had said, finally being thrown over the edge. "But if we aren't the best of fucking—freaking friends by the end of the summer, can we please just go our separate ways?"
"Deal."
Blake felt enriched.
Blake felt more than enriched, he felt accomplished. He'd make a promise to himself just before school ended—that he'd make things right with anyone he'd ever tormented, tripped, or slept with and deserted.
And Brooks Sutton was number one on that list.
With Blake having laughed, and taunted Brooks on many, many occasions, and sure, he wasn't necessarily sorry, he'd Gwendolyn had assured him that it was the most-definite right thing to do.
