Page 25 of What I Like About You

“Zara. Please. I just want to talk. Like we used to.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of how they used to stay up for hours just talking. He’d always been such an amazing listener, and he allowed her to ramble on for forever about whatever was going on in her head. She’d made him listen to showtunes and watch chick flicks, all the while talking about the swoony heroes and how real men would never live up to them.

Looking up at him now, she saw something in his eyes that told her he missed that too. Her heart skipped another beat, and despite her better judgment, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. He’d always been a bit of a weak spot, and she knew that would never change. Nodding lightly, she watched as he effortlessly slipped into the empty seat.

“Hi,” he said, when she finally looked at him.

“Hi,” she returned. There was so much she wanted to say. So many things she’d rehearsed in her head that if she ever saw him again, she’d tell him. But now that she was facing him, she found she couldn’t say any of it. The hurt of hearing him say those words was still too raw. He didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing her break down. If he wanted to talk, then he could talk.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“For what?”

“For letting me sit. For hearing me out.” He took a deep breath and looked her in the eyes. “I’ve run this moment over and over again in my mind what must be a billion times at this point. Thinking of all the things I could say, and I’ve yet to come up with something that even begins to scratch the surface of how unbelievably sorry I am. Those words were…vile. Saying them was unforgivable.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I know I hurt you—”

“Hurt me?! Hurt me…” she cut him off. “You didn’t just hurt me, Tripp. You humiliated me. I was mortified!”

The tears forming behind her eyes started to sting. She blinked furiously to hold them back. She didn’t want him to see her cry.

“I realize that there isn’t anything I can say to justify it. But I want—need—you to know how much I regret it. How there is nothing else in this world that I wish I could take back more than saying those words, Zara. And not just because you heard them, but because there was absolutely no truth behind them.”

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “You really expect me to believe that?!”

“It’s the truth. You don’t have to believe me. I probably wouldn’t if I were you, but it is the truth.”

“Know what the worst part of it was for me? I had actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, you were doing it because you liked me,” she admitted. She told herself that she would never admit that to him—that somewhere around him whispering in her ear during prom pictures she’d started to imagine that it was real. That he’d asked her because he was proud to escort her, and that maybe even at the end of the night, he’d kiss her. Just like the fairy tales.

“I did like you.”

“No, you pitied me,” she countered. “You saw me as a project. A pretty dress and ton of makeup and even Shamu can be semi decent looking!”

“Don’t call yourself that,” he said, a scowl crossing his face.

“What? Shamu? I know that’s what you and your friends called me.”

“I never called you that.”

“Maybe not, but they all sure did. They even did it to my face. And yeah, I guess it was fitting. Since I’m just the fat girl.”

“Do you really think that little of yourself?”

“I just—”

“Zara, you are beautiful. You always have been. Are you listening to me? Always.” His eyes bore into her, and she felt her resolve soften. She’d always wanted to hear him say that. “I never pitied you or thought of you as a project. I liked you as a person. Like a boy likes a girl.”

Zara couldn’t believe what she was hearing. There was no way that was the truth. High school Dalton had been into the cheerleaders and the other hot blondes that pranced around the school in their short skirts. He had not liked her like that.

“You did not.”

“I sat through RENT for you. Twice! I learned all the words to that stupid duet from Wicked because you wanted to do karaoke at your sweet sixteen. Do you think I would have done that just to get laid at prom?”

“You could have just been playing the long game,” she suggested. She didn’t know where this snark was coming from. In all the versions of this conversation she’d rehearsed, she’d never been mean to him.

“The long game? Seventeen years is a really fucking long time to keep that up.”