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I send him a single emoji in response.
The middle finger.
I pocket my phone, glancing up to find Blair watching me, her gaze filled with an unfamiliar emotion. She looks away the moment we make eye contact and disappointment floods me. I hate that she doesn’t even want to look at me. That I’ve ruined everything that was good between us.
We finish dinner in strained silence and the Maguires bail on us after paying the bill—I tried to hand them money to pay for my dinner, but they refused my offer. They head back to the hotel after hugging and kissing on Blair for a few minutes. All while I stand in the entrance to the restaurant and pretend I’m scrolling on my phone.
It’s painful, pretending like what’s happening doesn’t matter. When all it does is matter—so damn much.
The moment her parents exit the restaurant, I make my offer.
“I can find my own ride home.”
She visibly flinches, like my words hurt her. “No way. You’re stuck with me.”
“More like you’re stuck with me,” I remind her.
An aggravated noise leaves her just before she pushes her way out of the restaurant and into the cold, dark night.
I follow after her, jogging to keep up with her hurried pace across the parking lot. I don’t say a word, worried I might say something to piss her off and I’m not in the mood to feel the full wrath of Blair.
She unlocks the car and slides into the driver’s seat, without hesitation, and I jog around the back of the car, entering on the passenger side. The moment the doors slam shut, I’m assaulted with her scent. That one I keep sniffing covertly from the travel-sized perfume I bought a while ago that I keep in my nightstand like some sort of creeper.
I have issues and every one of them begins and ends with this woman sitting in the driver’s seat of her car.
We drive in silence to my apartment, the only sound is the music coming from the stereo. She’s got a Spotify playlist on and the moment a certain song starts with the gentle tinkling of a piano, she cranks it up, listening to it at full blast, singing along with every single word.
The screen says the song is called “Mad Woman” by Taylor Swift.
Fuck. I’m doomed.
There’s nothing like a mad woman, the lyrics say.
Tell me all about it.
She pulls into a parking spot close to my building, throwing the car into park and turning down the music, glaring at me.
“You know what’s infuriating about you, Camden Fields?”
I brace myself, about to respond when she talks right over me.
“Your ‘oh poor me, I’m not worthy of you’ bullshit that you always spew. Like I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Or just agree with you and leave you alone? It’s like you can’t see yourself for what you really are, and I’m tired of trying to convince you of it.”
Inhaling deeply, I try to come up with something to say, but her words are a jumble in my brain, hard to decipher. Hard to make sense of.
“I know what you’re thinking. By me saying I’m tired of convincing you is exactly what you want to hear. It feeds into that whole ‘see, I told you I’m not good enough’ crap you’ll spew next. Well, guess what?”
“What?” I whisper, slowly turning to face her.
God, she’s beautiful, especially when she’s mad. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are wild, and she looks like she wants to strangle me.
“You’reright.You’re not worthy. You don’t deserve me. I’m pretty fucking great and if you can’t see that, then that’s your loss. You may win at football and you’ll probably get into the NFL and make a bazillion dollars and have this amazing career. As a matter of fact, I’m positive that you will do exactly that. Women will make thirst-trap posts about you on social media and everyone will think they want you, but they won’t know therealyou and that’s a good thing. Because you’re awful. And so fucking blind. You wouldn’t know the love of a good woman if she slapped you in the ass and called you sexy.”
I almost laugh at her slapping my ass comment. What the fuck is she even saying?
Wait a minute. Did she just admit that she’s in love with me?
“I believe in you more than you believe in yourself, and I don’t know why I waste my time. You don’t care about me. Not really. You’re too wrapped up in your own shit to see what’s really happening right in front of your face.”
