Good Boy (WAGs #1)(55)

“I don’t want to lock him down.” Then I question my own statement, because…do I? No, of course not. If I asked Blake for exclusivity, that would be saying that I want a commitment from him. Which I don’t.

She shrugs. “Then you can’t get mad about him not texting you.”

I wasn’t mad about it! I want to shout. I hadn’t even noticed Blake’s radio silence until she brought it up.

I suddenly wonder if maybe she’s trying to get into my head. I was already freaking out about this final, and now, thanks to Violet, my brain is even more of a jumbled mess. But nobody is that calculating, right? I’m sure she was just trying to make conversation.

As we walk into the lecture hall, I banish all thoughts of Blake from my head and force myself to concentrate on what’s important. Passing this exam. Excelling in this program. Proving to everyone that Jessica Canning is not a screw-up.

I can do this.

I know I can.



I can’t do this.

For the millionth time since I sat down, my gaze flies toward the clock over the door. We had three hours to write the final. We’re down to ten minutes.

I have one question left to answer. It’s the hardest one on the test, which I decided to save for last after wasting the first twenty minutes blankly staring at my exam booklet and struggling to write something.

I’m supposed to pick one of the diseases on the list and write a two-page “systematic examination of the disease process, physiological changes and nursing implications, grounding the assessment in a pathophysiological framework.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

Heat stings my eyes, and I order myself—no, command myself—not to cry in the middle of the lecture hall. I have ten minutes to write a two-page response. Nope, make that nine minutes, because I just wasted a whole minute panicking about it.

Violet, of course, is long gone. She was beaming like a fireworks display when she delivered her booklet to the instructor thirty minutes early. She’s probably at the campus coffeehouse right now, bragging to everyone about how she aced this final.

Stop thinking about Violet! Write something!

I take a breath, then utilize the mantra Wes taught me after he caught me freaking out over a flower-related disaster when I was planning his wedding this summer.

It’s going to be okay.

It’s going to be okay.

It’s going to be okay.

I exhale slowly. Wow. All right. That kind of worked. Wes is really good at this calming-yourself-down stuff.

With my pen firmly in hand, I bend my head and start writing. I write as fast as I can, not bothering to proofread every sentence the way I usually do. There’s no time. Just write, Jess. You’ve got this.

When the instructor clears her throat and announces that our time is up, I drop my pen and release a breath of relief. My wrist is sore as hell, and my fingers are numb and locked in a claw position, but I don’t care, because I did it. I answered the motherfuckin’ question! I filled two pages and I feel like I’ve just finished a 10K marathon.

On shaky legs, I walk down the steps to hand in my paper. The instructor sets it on the pile with the other booklets and smiles as she bids me goodbye. I smile back, but it’s a tight, strained smile. The panic is setting in again, because I notice that a lot of the other students are handing in not one but two booklets. They wrote so much that they had to ask for extra paper? I wonder how many booklets Violet filled up. Ten, I bet.

God, why couldn’t I have been born an over-achiever?

I’m glummer than glum as I hitch my messenger bag over my shoulder and exit the building. Outside, the air is frigid and the wind is brisk. Winter’s coming, and I’m looking forward to it about as much as the Starks in the north. And that’s just another mistake the under-achieving Jess Canning could’ve avoided—spend more time studying and less time binge-watching Game of fucking Thrones. Maybe if I hadn’t wasted so much time on pointless shit these past couple of years, I wouldn’t be a twenty-six-year-old first-year nursing student who probably just bombed her final exam.

Wonderful. I’m feeling sorry for myself again.

What happened to me? I used to be so confident. But it’s like something has slowly been chipping away at my self-esteem ever since I graduated from high school.

I watched all my siblings accomplish their goals. All my friends killed it in college and now have successful careers. The friends who didn’t have a driving career passion still found passion in other ways, like Darcy, who married the best guy on the planet and just had her first kid. She emailed me a few weeks ago and admitted that being a wife and mom is the most rewarding thing she’s ever done.

And me? I’m struggling with yet another career path, and I don’t think I’ve ever been in a relationship that I would classify as “rewarding.”

Okay, enough. Pity party’s over, missy.

I draw a breath. Yeah, I need to stop wallowing. It’s totally counterproductive.

I head back to the dorm, where I take the shower I was forced to skip earlier. Then I crawl into bed and pass out, catching up on all the sleep I missed during my ten-day cram session.

When I wake up, the room is bathed in darkness. A weary glance at the alarm clock reveals that it’s a little past seven. I’d slept for seven straight hours. Awesome. Now I’ll be up all night. Why didn't I set an alarm?