Lucky Girl by Jamie Pacton (novels for beginners txt) 📕

Sofie makes a sympathetic noise.

I go on. “I swear, he was fine until he went to that stupid Future Investor’s Club of America camp in Manhattan last summer. He broke up with me the day he got home.”

“But he gave you no reason why?” says Sofie.

An unwelcome tear rolls down my face. Dammit. I’m so tired of crying over Holden. “He said he wanted to experience the world and date other people, that I didn’t see him for who he really was, and that I was holding him back. I thought he loved me, but—”

My voice breaks as I say it. Holden’s admission that my love wasn’t enough for him still hurts like a broken bone. I’ve had time to let it set, but there’s a deep ache that marks how I’ve been changed.

How can love be there one moment and gone the next? Did I miss the signs? I still have no idea, and I hate that I’m still asking myself these questions two months later.

I mean, I’m a girl who likes puppies, dorky romantic movies, babysitting kids, reading until dawn, and laughing too loudly. Or I was that girl. Lately, I just feel like this sad sack of a human who can’t get past an already-done relationship.

I’m so over feeling sad, but I can’t quite get over Holden.

Ugh.

I bury my head in my hands and groan. “See my previous comment about not dating until I’m thirty.”

“I’m sorry, Jane,” says Sofie. “I wish I was there to give you a hug and throw eggs at Holden. Bran, hug Jane for me.” She opens her arms like she’s hugging me.

“You’re a delight,” I say, blowing her a kiss.

Bran gives me a hug, and I lean into it, grateful for his steady friendship and the fact that Sofie is cool with me being best friends with her boyfriend and that it’s not weird between us when he does things like hug me.

“Okay, okay,” says Bran, once he releases me from the hug. “Lunchtime is almost over; let’s forget about the worst of all possible humans, Holden, and talk about the money.”

“What money?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not give myself away. My voice quavers, though, as I say it, and I can’t help but glimpse toward my backpack like an ax murderer who’s trying not to reveal where the bodies are buried.

I can’t show my friends the winning ticket because who knows how they’d react. The last thing I need is for them to get weird because I’m now worth $58 million.

“The lotto money, silly,” says Sofie. “Bran texted me about it hours ago. Can you believe it? Somebody in your teeny-tiny town won millions of dollars!”

“I wonder who it is?” asks Bran, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Sofie shrugs. “Whoever it is, they’re so lucky. If I had that much money, I’d drop out of school immediately and buy a villa in Europe.”

“I’d use it to take you both somewhere really nice,” says Bran. “Somewhere special like Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas.”

Sofie and I both crack up at the same time.

“If you had that much money,” she says, “you’d take us on a vacation to the tropics, not Vegas.”

“Fair point,” says Bran. “If we’re taking this vacation, I suppose I’d have to buy a private jet or something.”

“You couldn’t buy a private jet with that money,” declares a smug voice from behind me.

I whip around, my body responding to that voice with a surge of loathing, lust, and lost-love ache that I’m still trying to untangle.

Holden Jones walks up to our table, hands in his pockets. Ever fashionable these days, he’s wearing an Armani T-shirt, form-fitting jeans that make me want to weep a little, and a gray wool coat that likely cost more than a car payment. Since he got back from FICA (or, as I like to call it, The Wolf of Wall Street) camp, he’s been reading GQ religiously and working extra hours at his dad’s hardware store to buy expensive clothes.

Gross, right?

Not the designer clothes—because look good if you want, that’s fine—but Holden’s new stockbroker, dude-bro aspirations are too much. If he’d been like this when we were dating, I like to think I would’ve dumped him.

Even as that thought rises, I can’t help but notice that despite how much he’s changed, he’s still gorgeous. Curse his stupid romance-novel-guy, shoulder-length black hair, his annoying deep-blue eyes, the not-adorable-at-all smattering of freckles across his cheeks, and his oh-so-familiar hands that know their way around my body so well.

He used to be funny. And smart. And kind.

And he used to make me feel different from anyone I’ve ever met.

And …

Ugh.

I think I hate him now almost as much as I thought I loved him. When he first joined Ecology Club two years ago, I thought I’d have to spend the entire time pretending not to like him. But then he was into me, and we were a thing. I miss being a part of us so much sometimes.

Holden scoots himself onto the picnic bench beside me, entirely too close for comfort. I bump him off.

“We broke up,” I remind him. “I got the friend group in the divorce.”

He laughs. “But you said, ‘Let’s stay friends,’ so here I am, friend.”

“Nope,” I say, shoving him farther off the bench. “Go sit over there if you must.” I point to the other side of the table.

Bran gives him a poisonous look, but onscreen, Sofie waves as Holden sits down. She’s by far nicer than Bran and I combined.

“So,” Holden continues, “as I was saying, you can’t buy a private jet with $58 million. Or you could, but if you take a one-time payout, after taxes, you’re looking at, like, thirty million dollars. Private jets start near ten million, so after you fill it with gas a few times, find a crew, and pay airport fees, I bet you could get from Madison to London and home again, and then you’re