Through Glass (The Glass Series Book 1) Read Online Free

date and then go home to have make-up sex. The other days of the week depend highly on whether or not they can find other couples to hang out with—they get along well if they don’t spend time alone together.
     
    I’m going out with Oliver.
     
    Who’s Oliver?
     
    That guy I told you about. The writer who owns a coffee shop.
     
    Cliché. Have fun with that. Text me later if you’re free.
     
    I check for other missed messages and it’s a sad realization when I see that I have none, despite not having checked my phone at all in the last three days.
    I find myself standing in front of the blank white canvas, leaning up against the wall. I briefly consider choosing what to paint, which means it’s time for a nap.
    Some of the best artists of all time procrastinated as much as I do.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
     
    Pretending I belong in this place
     
    It’s a good thing I set my alarm clock. I wake up an hour before Oliver is supposed to pick me up, feeling like I haven’t even rested at all. I probably would have slept for another three hours if I hadn’t committed to going out tonight. I’m glad I did, though. I am absolutely starving and I have no food in my fridge. I pray whatever he has planned involves some kind of meal, although I know I can’t afford it. He will probably foot the bill again, much like the first night we were out together and spent a hundred dollars on alcohol alone, on top of our meal. When he asks for one check tonight I’ll tell him he doesn’t need to pay for my meal, while assuring him that I will get the next one. Perhaps I’ll be polite and offer to cover us both this time before the waitress even comes by to offer coffee or dessert, and maybe he’ll let me pay—meaning I definitely won’t have enough money for groceries anytime soon. I will have to eat Ramen noodles for two weeks if that happens.
    I sit up in bed and throw my feet over the side. I reach down for the dress I left crumpled on the floor and hope there are no wrinkles in it. Since I don’t have a dryer in my apartment, I’d have to hang it in the bathroom with the shower on hot for a couple minutes to steam the wrinkles out, but I really don’t have the patience for that.
    I hold it up—it’s not wrinkled. I decide I should probably wear makeup this time. I don’t think he’s ever seen me with makeup on, and I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard to impress him. I reach for my foundation, and begin to dab it onto my face. It covers hundreds of freckles on my otherwise flawless skin. I used to love my freckles. My grandmother had me convinced that they were ridiculously cute. I was even proud of them, until my ex-husband told me they looked terrible and asked me to wear several layers of makeup to hide them when we were out with his buddies. Now I am ashamed of them.
    The light pink blush gives my cheeks a sheer hue, and my dark purple eyeliner makes my huge hazel eyes stand out even more.
    Convinced that I have done all I can to make myself look decent, I sit on my bed, staring into my mirror, and I wait.
    He sends me a text that says he’s in the parking lot of my building. Gone are the days when men actually came knocking at the door, I guess.
     
    K, coming out.
     
    He’s wearing a suit. I can tell, even though I can barely see him through the tinted windows of his black Sonata. I can see the dark jacket and the contrasting white shirt. I’m glad I wore a dress.
    I open the car door and I have to move his notebook from the seat in order to get in. I put it carefully on my lap and begin to thumb through it.
    “Don’t read anything,” he asserts, sounding almost angry.
    That’s not exactly fair. He went through my canvases without my permission, but I’m not allowed to glance through his writing? They are each just as personal as the other. They both express our feelings. Suddenly, my cheeks turn red. I comply with his request and I reach back, placing the notebook on the