Read Nothing More for Free Online

pretty sure I’ll never be cool. I’ve never been cool, and I’m okay with that. Besides, I would rather not compete with the millions of perfect men out there and would instead keep my books on my shelves and maybe get lucky enough to find a woman who likes them, too.
    Not having any blue Gatorade, I try to tempt her with my favorite, the red one. “You’re so quiet,” Nora says when I hand her the bottle. She examines it, raises a brow, and shakes her head.
    I stay quiet.
    â€œBetter this than water, I suppose.” Her voice is soft, not demanding at all, despite the fact that she has a serious Gatorade-hating problem. My mind curiously wonders what other opinions she has. Are there any other sugar-saturated drinks that she holds unnecessary grudges against? I find myself wanting to know. While I’m preparing in advance my defense of all my favorite drinks that she might hate, she twists the top from the red bottle and takes a drink.
    After a moment, she says, “Eh.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another swig as she turns to walk away.
    She’s weird. Not in a she-lives-in-her-mom’s-basement-and-collects-Beanie-Babies weird. She’s weird as in I can’t figure out her personality, and I definitely can’t figure out what those awkward pauses or random touches are supposed to mean. I usually read people so well.
    But instead of cracking the code of romance, I grab my water from the fridge, go into my room, and finish my essay, then go to bed.

chapter
Four
    T HE MORNING CAME QUICKLY. I went to bed around one and woke up at six. How many hours do doctors recommend again? Seven? So, I’m only like 30 percent off target. Which, yeah, is a lot. But I’ve gotten used to staying up late and waking up early. I’m slowly becoming a New Yorker. I drink coffee daily, I’m starting to get the hang of the subway system, and I learned how to share the sidewalks with the stroller moms in Brooklyn.
    Tessa has learned all this, too, right along with me, although we differ in one maybe-significant way: I give less of my money to the homeless I see on my way to school and back. Tessa, for her part, gives away half of her tip earnings on the walk home. Not that I don’t care or help, I just prefer to give coffee or muffins when I can, not money to feed possible addictions. I understand the hope Tessa feels when she hands a homeless man a five-dollar bill. She truly believes he will buy food with it or something else he needs. I don’t, but I can’t really argue with her about it. Maybe she has the better idea here, but I know a lot of her attitude comes from her personal connection with the homeless. Tessa found out her dad, who wasn’t around in her life, was living on the streets. They got to know each other a little bit before he succumbed to his addictions and died a little less than a year ago. It was really hard for her, and I think helping these strangers heals a small part of that open wound.
    For every dollar she gives, she’s rewarded with a smile, a “thank you” or “God bless you.” Tessa’s the kind of person who tries to pull the best out of everyone. She gives more of herself than she should and she expects people to be kind, even when it’s not the most accessible part of their nature. I think she sees her small mission as some kind of redemption for her failed relationship with her father, and even with Hardin, who is one of the most difficult people I know. Maybe she couldn’t help those two, but she can help these people. I know it’s naïve, but she’s my best friend and this is one of the only positive things that actually energizes her lately. She doesn’t sleep. Her gray eyes are swollen 99 percent of the time. She’s struggling with getting over a catastrophic breakup, the death of her father, moving to a new place, and not getting accepted into NYU.
    That’s a lot for