Love Rewritten Read online

  LOVE REWRITTEN

  J. Saman

  ¶

  PRONOUN

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  Copyright © 2017 by J. Saman

  Interior design by Pronoun

  Distribution by Pronoun

  ISBN: 9781508069423

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  End of Book Note

  Love Rewritten

  By: J. Saman

  Other books by me:

  Forward

  Start Again (Start Again Series #1)

  Start Over (Start Again Series #2)

  Start With Me (Start Again Series #3) – TBR

  CHAPTER 1

  THE OVERWHELMING SMELL OF BACON and eggs wakes me from one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. Giggling—female giggling at that—reaches my ears as I roll over in my bed to stretch out my stiff muscles. More giggling, and now maybe some squealing too. I roll my eyes as I sit up, grabbing my black sweatshirt off the back of my desk chair before throwing it over my head.

  This is not the same girl as two nights ago.

  I sigh audibly as I stand up, adjusting my plaid sleeping shorts that had twisted at some point during the night. Slipping my feet into my Luke and Leia slippers that Aubrey bought me for Christmas, I decide it’s time to go out there and get this over with, because, well, I’m hungry, and that smell is only making it worse.

  I could wait until the giggling girl leaves, but I just don’t have that kind of time this morning. Shuffling my feet across the floor, I open the door to my bedroom and make my way down the long hallway towards the kitchen.

  The giggling gets louder as does the smell of my breakfast cooking, making my excessively empty stomach growl. I really wish I had eaten dinner last night, but I didn’t so now I’m paying the price because I’m forced to encounter . . . that.

  “Morning, Aubrey,” I say in my most annoying sing-song voice, sauntering into the kitchen and ignoring the glare I get from Malibu Barbie who is draped over Aubrey like a cheap suit. I make a beeline for the stove where the bacon and eggs are popping and sizzling away.

  “Morning, Abby,” Aubrey says with an amused tone to his voice. He knows I hate it when his girls sleep over. Especially when they’re irritating and territorial, like this one seems to be. “Have you met Britney?”

  Britney? He’s got to be kidding me.

  “Nope. Don’t think I have,” I say with my back to them, as I pick up the tongs and release the locking mechanism, making the two grabbers spring apart. Reaching into the pan, I grab two slices of crispy bacon that are dripping with grease and place them onto the waiting paper towels next the pan.

  “Um . . . Aubrey?” Britney starts with a thinly veiled possessive edge to her voice. Or maybe it’s more of a, why is there a girl in your kitchen wearing her pajamas, edge. I can’t be sure.

  I pat the bacon with paper towels, removing the excess grease before turning off the pans with both the bacon and eggs that are becoming a little too well done, because apparently, Aubrey is too busy with Britney to properly tend to my breakfast.

  “Brit,” Aubrey starts, as I pick up the serving spoon to dish myself out some eggs before grabbing my degreased bacon and adding it to my plate. Brit? We’re already onto nicknames? Ugh!

  I spin around to face the full-on bitch eye she’s throwing me. Long, manicured fingers wrap around Aubrey’s neck from the side, which just looks awkward and uncomfortable since she has to stand on her tip toes to reach his six foot two height.

  “This is my twin sister, Abby.”

  “Oh.”

  She giggles again, looking far too relieved for a girl I know he just met last night and who will soon be sent away like the rest of them are. I have to refrain from rolling my eyes as she releases him, looking more confident in her prize. Her eyes do a full sweep of me, tilting her head and propping a hand on her hip as she studies me.

  “Right. I can see the resemblance now.” She straightens and nods her head like it all makes sense. “It’s so great to meet you,” she coos excitedly.

  “You too,” I say with a smile. “And Aubrey and I do look a little alike.”

  Britney is pretty, I’ll give her that, but they always are, so that doesn’t necessarily make her special around here. She has long blonde hair that reaches the middle of her back. Light blue eyes, swollen pink lips, and a large—quite possibly fake—rack that’s desperately trying to break free from the confines of her too-tight pink sorority tank top.

  Like I said, Malibu Barbie. A sweet one though.

  “Yup. It’s the hair,” Aubrey teases, wrapping his arm around her waist before leaning in to kiss the side of her head.

  “No.” She shakes her head, completely serious. “It’s the eyes.”

  I snort, because right now my naturally dark auburn hair—the same shade as Aubrey’s—has some bright red streaks in it. Clearly not anyone’s natural color.

  “Yes. Aubrey and I do have the same eyes,” I agree, leaning back against the counter across from them and taking a bite of my eggs to hide my smile.

  Aubrey’s amused too, which I take for a good sign that he won’t keep this one around much longer. Their new girl luster usually wears off after a day or two anyway. I take one more bite of the eggs, but just as quickly put my fork down on the plate I’m balancing in my hand because they’re too well done for me.

  “Well, I like your red. It’s so . . .” She scrunches her nose like she’s trying really hard to think of the right word. “Bright. Really makes your eyes pop.” She looks up at Aubrey. “How come your red isn’t as bright as your sister’s if you’re twins?”

  Aubrey just shrugs, but I can see the inner groan.

  “Well, thanks.” I smile as politely as I can because that was actually a nice compliment. Scraping the leftover eggs into the trash with my fork, I toss my plate into the sink, taking the remaining piece of bacon with me toward my room.

  “I need a shower before class. It was a pleasure to meet you, Britney,” I tell her, holding up the hand with the bacon in it as a wave.

  “Oh.” Another giggle. “You too,” she says, far bubblier than any human should be at eight in the morning.

  “You coming home after class, Ab?” Aubrey calls out to me before I can even make it halfway down the hall.

  I spin around, catching only half his face, the other side obscured by the wall. “Nope. I have work to do at the library.”

  He gives me a smile I can only see half of because of the wall, but am familiar enough with to know it means he’s planning on spending the morning
with Britney and is glad I won’t be back in an hour.

  Gross.

  I finish off the last of my bacon, wiping the excess grease on my boxers, before walking into my room, shutting the door and going straight into my en-suite bathroom.

  Aubrey and I live in a three-bedroom apartment in one of the large complexes that are just on the outskirts of campus, but still very much walking distance. There are two ten-story buildings, and though they are not technically part of the university, they are entirely filled with its students. We had a roommate—my friend Tessa—but she had a bad bought with bulimia and ended up leaving before Thanksgiving break. Aubrey and I agreed not to add on anyone else, deciding that we like it better just the two of us.

  I shower quickly, already cutting it close since my class is at nine and on the other side of campus. Throwing on a black sweater, my dark skinny jeans and black Chucks, I run a brush through my long hair and apply some mascara before saying, “Fuck it.”

  I grab my books and laptop, shoving them into my bag before heading out the door.

  “Later Aub,” I call out as I shut the door behind me, not waiting for him to say it back. He won’t. I’d already heard more of Britney’s intolerable giggles from behind Aubrey’s closed door.

  The air is cool, but not nearly as cold as it was yesterday, though spring in the south is at least a month off. I forgot my jacket in my rush, so I cross my arms around my chest, squeezing a little to ward off the chill as I briskly walk across campus towards Riley Hall, where my British Literature class is held. I’m an English major, biology minor, and other than having a love affair with books and a weird obsession for dissecting things, I have no idea what I’m going to do with that.

  I’m only a junior, so I have at least a year before I need that figured out. I reach the large stone steps that lead up to the glass doors of the building with ten minutes to spare.

  “Hey loser.”

  I turn my head to see Nina, my best friend, jogging over to meet me.

  “Glad I’m not the only one running late today,” she says, her perfect white teeth surrounded by pink glossy lips shining in the early morning sun.

  “We’re not late.” I hold up my wrist that does not have a watch on it, tapping on it with my finger. “Still have ten more minutes.”

  “Yes,” she agrees, looping her arm through my elbow. “But for you that’s late.” Nina’s right. I do compulsively early. It’s like a tick or an OCD thing, it cannot be helped.

  I shrug. “Aubrey’s latest toy sidetracked me.”

  She chuckles lightly, though I know she probably hates hearing that but will never admit to it. The heavy glass doors open before we can reach them as two girls exit the building, holding it open for us in a kind gesture. We thank them before entering the dim hallway that smells exactly the same as it has the last three years, like bleach and dirty mop water.

  “How’s your paper coming along?” Nina asks, changing the subject away from Aubrey and his women, as we climb the stairs up to the second floor. Nina sips on her large stainless steel to-go coffee mug.

  “Ugh,” I groan, sagging my shoulders as we round the corner and head for our classroom. “It’s coming along like crap. I’m only fifteen pages into it, Nina.” My frustration bleeds into my tone as I look at her profile. Her head turns towards me, making her stick-straight, almost-platinum hair brush her shoulders as her warm, honey-brown eyes find mine. She purses her lips, crinkling her eyes in sympathy at my plight.

  “That sucks.” She reaches out, rubbing my shoulder in reassurance. “Sorry babe.”

  We finally reach our class, which is all the way at the end of the corridor, and enter the large lecture hall that is set up like an auditorium with stadium seating. Our regular seats are halfway up and on the end. I always like to be on the end of a row so I can make a quick getaway when needed.

  And no, I haven’t had to utilize this method yet. I’m paranoid, what can I say?

  Nina and I were roommate’s freshman year and we hit it off instantly. She’s here on an academic scholarship. She was raised by a foster family after her parents were killed in a car crash when she was only ten. She was lucky, because the foster people who took her in were her neighbors and they’re good people. Wonderful people even, but were already spread thin with their three other kids when Nina came along.

  Hence the scholarship.

  “So,” Nina whispers to me, leaning in slightly so that Professor Hot-and-Sexy doesn’t overhear. “Spring break?” she asks, keeping her eyes trained on our ridiculously attractive professor.

  I sigh. She knows she’s pushing it.

  “I can’t. There is no way I’ll be anywhere near where I need to be with my manuscript, and it’s due the week after we get back from break.”

  She doesn’t say anything to this right away, but I know it bothers her. Nina has been saving up all of her hard earned dollars from her gig as a waitress at Brew’s Pub for this. A bunch of people are going to Vegas for the week, which I’m dying to do, but can’t. I just can’t. This manuscript for my Advanced Fiction Writing course is eating me alive. Why I ever allowed myself to get talked into taking it, I’ll never know.

  I’m not a writer.

  But it’s too late now to do anything about it, so I’m stuck.

  Which means no Vegas.

  “You suck. You know that?” she hisses.

  “It’s not like I’m not dying to go with you guys,” I hiss back. “Aubrey hasn’t shut up about it, trying to get me to go, but I just can’t, so both of you need to drop it.”

  “Fine,” she huffs, leaning back in her chair, she angles herself so that she’s completely facing forward. We’re silent now, listening to a stupid lecture comparing the writings of Austen and the Brontë sisters. I mean, come on. We’re freaking English majors. We’ve all already read this shit.

  So I zone out, thinking about my manuscript and how I can make it brilliant. I need to make it brilliant and not just for me, but because Professor Halpern, who not only teaches the class, is also my mentor. She’s my champion and an all-around kickass chick, so the thought of disappointing her with substandard work eats at me.

  But I’ve never been a writer and I’m kidding myself for thinking anything else. It has to be a minimum of eighty pages and I’m only fifteen in. Oh, and it’s due in a little more than seven weeks. Fuck. Me.

  And did I mention that those fifteen pages are dribble? Because they are. I have yet to come up with a real story and I think that’s what has me the most frustrated. I feel like once I’ve mastered that, I’ll be able to write the hell out of it.

  Leaning back in the reclining black fabric chair, I rock gently as I think about authors like Jane Austen, or Charlotte Brontë. Those ladies knew how to write. They wrote from things in their world. Society and love and betrayal.

  My world is just so boring in comparison.

  I have no love interest at present. Lately, I seem to be sort of the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, never sticking around past the three-month mark. I had a serious boyfriend through most of high school, but we fizzled out before we hit college.

  Society? Please.

  I come from an affluent family of lawyers who look upon me like I’m something of a novelty because I have no interest in following in their large footsteps. Aubrey does though, and while my family is supportive of my choices, they do not understand them.

  Probably because English and Biology are about as different as you can get. But I can’t decide if I want to go to medical school or do something in the publishing world. So maybe that’s why my family freely comments that I’m in the process of ‘finding myself’.

  That said, writing a story about a misunderstood girl from a wealthy family?

  Exactly, who cares?

  Plus, this story has to be fiction, and I am not blessed with a creative soul. So for now, I’m writing it about a dream I had once when I was twelve where I was a fairy who went around healing sick kids in their sleep. It was ac
tually what gave me the idea to possibly, maybe, want to be a doctor.

  I like the idea, I guess, but I don’t have much plot to it yet and that’s where I’m falling short.

  Class ends and I pack up my stuff after not taking a single note about anything Mr. Hot-and-Sexy said. My plan is to go to the library in an attempt to capture divine inspiration from the surrounding great works of literature, hoping they’ll bleed themselves into my soul and help deem me a writer. That was sort of poetic, right? Yeah, not so much.

  “You ready?” Nina asks, standing next to me, adjusting the heavy strap of her bag on her shoulder.

  “Yup, but I’m headed to the library.” I stand and we both walk down the wide steps that lead to the classroom door.

  I can practically feel her eye roll. I’ve never been one to go to the library and that’s not because I don’t work my ass off, because I do. I’m a straight-A student, but I tend to do my work sitting on my bed, or at the breakfast bar on a stool in my kitchen. The library and I only meet when I have to find something that I cannot access online, which isn’t all that often.

  Every book I need for my English classes I can usually access on my Kindle or I already own.

  I read. A lot.

  “Fine.” Nina looks over her shoulder at me with a smile as I reach her and we begin to walk side by side out of the building. “I’m headed to the gym anyway, and I know how you feel about that place.”

  She’s picking on me. I do exercise, but I like to run outside, even if it’s cold.

  “You mean the meat market?”

  “Yes,” she winks. “I’ve gotten more dates from that place than the bars.”

  I snicker as I open the heavy glass doors to the building so we can exit into the bright mid-January sun. “That’s because you’re practically naked when you run on the treadmill.”

  She shrugs unapologetically. “Whatever works.” She throws me a mischievous look that makes me laugh.

  “You’re shameless.” I shake my head as we stall, standing in front of the building before we part ways.

  “That I am,” she says absentmindedly as her eyes scan the quad watching as people pass us. “You around later?”