Page 5 of Forgotten Rules (Rules 4)

Haze had the money, the popularity, and, I have no choice but to admit… the looks. This resulted in him scoring spot number one on Zoey’s to-have list. She wanted to be his girlfriend so bad. More so she could say she managed to tame the unredeemable bad boy than to actually be with him.

Too bad the dude doesn’t have the ability to love.

“Wait, weren’t you supposed to bring that cousin of yours along?” Zoey realizes.

I scoop a handful of popcorn. “Yep. Told her I was spending the day with my heartbroken friend in her snotty apartment, and she decided she’d rather hang out with Kendrick. Shocker.”

Morgan chuckles. “What’s her name again?”

“Winter.”

Interest gleams in Zoey’s eyes. “Speaking of, how is your brother?”

Oh hell to the no.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What?” She blinks at me.

“Nope. None of that innocent shit. I know you. Don’t use my brother as a rebound.”

“I won’t.” She feigns confusion. “I was just wondering. Haven’t seen him in a while. Jeez.”

My shoulders deflate with relief.

It’s taken all I have to keep her paws off Kendrick back when she was single. Same went for him. At least when she was with Sean, I had peace of mind. These two together would be a freaking disaster.

“What are we watching?” I grab the remote.

“I changed my mind. Nothing that has to do with this monstrosity they call love,” Zoey says, and I sneer.

“I’ll drink to that.” Morgan sips on her water—because alcohol has never touched that girl’s lips in her eighteen years of life. That would require her choosing a night out over a good book at least once.

My thoughts dart to my tasks for the upcoming day. I’m supposed to go job hunting, been planning it for a while now. Even printed out my résumés three weeks ahead of time.

Morgan agreed to come with me despite her already having a gig tutoring a few kids from school. Zoey will meet us back at my house when we’re done to binge our favorite shows the way we do every Sunday night.

We spend the rest of the evening vegetating on Zoey’s couch, commenting on the teen movie—which does contain romance despite our best efforts—while I try not to prove my brother right by meticulously planning my Sunday down to the last second.

Waking up has always been the worst part of my day. Like it’s not bad enough that we’re going to spend one third of our lives drooling on a pillow, we have to feel like shit most mornings, too. Why can’t we just wake up with great hair and endless energy? Also, I need to have a chat with the people making movies where the girl wakes up with a full face of makeup.

Dragging my feet down the stairs, I wrestle with the last wavy strand of my blonde hair. I must’ve gone over the stubborn piece with the straightener a million times—Nope, it won’t budge. I eventually had to admit defeat not to be late, but I know it’s going to bug me for the rest of the day.

I pluck my phone out of my pocket, scolding myself for sleeping in. It’s past nine. I usually get up at seven during the weekend and six during the week. If I wake up any later, I feel awful about wasting my day.

Padding into the kitchen, I try tricking my brain into positive thinking: I will get a job. Everything will work out. I can do this. I have bills to pay. Get a car, they said. You’ll be independent, they said. Little did I know that shit could break without a warning and cost hundreds to fix when I barely have twenty dollars to my name.

The car cost me all I had, and I refuse to take the bus until graduation. Nuh-huh. Over my dead body. Not when I spent the summer working my ass off at summer camp with grouchy, screaming kids for it.

“Morning, sweetie.” Mom walks into the room, tucking a long-sleeve white shirt into blue jeans. Her hair and makeup are done. Wait… is she wearing a bra? You’d have to pay my mom to wear a bra on her day off.

“You going somewhere?” I pour myself a cup of coffee.

“Taking your cousin shopping for her first day in school.” Excitement radiates off her.

Winter ambles into the kitchen next, her long brown hair sprawled over one shoulder and reaching her belly button. Still in her pajamas, she smiles at my mom and mouths, “Save me,” when we lock eyes.

I swallow a laugh. My cousin’s always hated shopping. She loves her leggings and comfy T-shirts more than should be allowed. Don’t get me wrong, she isn’t a tomboy. Just a very simple girl. She barely wears any makeup—not that she needs it—and looks so unrecognizable when she does you could accidentally file a missing-person report on her ass.