I can’t cry.
Not here.
Not now.
“Why isn’t that enough?” he demands, quieter now. “Why do you need my whole goddamned life story?”
“For… forme.” My words feel like mud, thick and disgusting. My eyes burn from holding back the tears. “So I can understand what sort of women you dated and dumped before, and so I can—” I’m choking, shaking my head.
Believe me, I know confessing my real motives—searching for a snowball’s chance in hell of being with him for real—would be like opening my chest for an Aztec sacrifice.
His frown changes from broody mad to just uncertain, wary.
“Pages—”
“Just forget it.” I toss down my napkin as I stand.
“Fuck, wait,” he mutters under his breath as I storm through the restaurant, unable to see through the blurry veil of tears.
I need air. I have to get outside.
Should’ve worn waterproof mascara, too.
More importantly, I should’veknownfairy tales don’t come true.
Everything was going too well before I opened my fat mouth.
I clatter through the door into the warm summer evening, pressing a hand to my unsettled stomach.
Breathe.
Not as easy as it sounds.
My body seizes up like I have invisible ropes wrapped around me tight. Leaning against the wall, I try to remember how my lungs work.
Every breath is suffering.
Even though the cynical part of my brain insists this was bound to happen, I can’t believe how everything fell apart so quickly.
Ethan doesn’t trust me after all.
I’m not sure he ever did.
And that feels like someone slamming a ten-pound art book square into my ribs with enough force to fracture them.
All because I asked Margot a few innocent questions about his dating life.
Because I just had to figure out if there was any chance he’d ever be interested in me after this sham expires.
Because my self-confidence is more brittle than a wafer.
Thanks, Mom.
Now, I have my answer, and it’s a resoundinghell no.
“Hattie,” Ethan says, crashing after me through the doors.
I straighten up and look brave—I try—my spine cracking and my chest aching.
