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Brett was the same, always in my head—but for a different reason. And it was a lot harder to pretend he didn’t exist when I had to help him dye his hair.
He sat on the toilet in front of me. We’d opened up all the windows in the house to try to air out the ammonia smell that came with this particular box dye. The same color I’d gotten for him before. Had to stay consistent, even if I did think he looked better as a blond.
But his pretty blond head was still too infamous right now. They didn’t plaster it on the nightly news anymore, but not enough time had passed. People might still recognize him if he walked around in public with light blond hair.
“Fuck,” Brett muttered as I massaged the color into his hair. You weren’t supposed to get it on the scalp, but I was at the point where I didn’t care, and I didn’t think he gave a shit, either. “This stuff stinks so fucking bad.”
“It does,” I agreed quietly.
His blue eyes were on me, on my face, studying me, and I pretended not to notice. I hadn’t asked him to sleep in my room again. With how confused I’d been feeling about him lately, I think it was best if we kept some distance between us.
Although there was absolutely zero distance now, but it was easy to ignore his mouth and his general attractiveness when I was busy choking on the ammonia smell this hair dye gave off.
“Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird,” he said, eyebrows creasing.
“Contrary to what you might think, you don’t know me,” I huffed as I squeezed more dye onto my gloves. “I’m fine.”
“See? I might be a serial killer, but I ain’t stupid. When a girl says she’s fine, nine times out of ten, she’s not fine, so why don’t you just spit it out already, huh? What’s wrong? Did your stalker call again?”
“No.”
“Are you still mad at me about Friday night?”
Mad wasn’t the word I’d use, but I simply said, “No.” I avoided eye contact with him—those blue eyes were so deep you could get lost in them, and though his smiles never quite reached them, they could still pin you against the wall and make you feel some type of way.
“Then what is it?”
I heaved a sigh. I had to tell him something, otherwise he wouldn’t let up. He’d keep poking and poking until he got somewhere. “My sister came by the house yesterday. She just got engaged.”
Brett’s mouth thinned into a thoughtful frown. “And you’re not happy about it?”
His hair was slick with the dye, completely coated in the stuff, so I set the used bottle down inside the open dye box and took off my gloves. I set a timer on my phone, and then I leaned my back against the wall opposite the toilet—one way to put some space between us, at least. “No, I am. I’m glad she’s happy. That’s all that matters.”
“Why do I feel like there’s more to this than you’re saying?”
I shrugged. “She started dating him four years ago, around the same time I started dating Zak. I guess it just… makes me a little sad, or maybe jealous, because my relationship ended while hers is still chugging along. They’re actually coming over next weekend. My parents want to fawn over them and their engagement. It’s going to be miserable.”
“Can’t you say you have somewhere else to be?”
“No. I’d never hear the end of it if I missed it.” I let my gaze fall to the linoleum floor. It was an old, ugly yellow floor, original to the house, I think. We weren’t poor, but at the same time, my parents hadn’t updated anything in the house over the last twenty-something years, other than the roof—and that was only because it had started leaking in places. I hated the yellow linoleum so much.
Brett was silent for a while, and then he said something that caught me so off guard, I nearly choked on my own tongue: “I could come.” When I did nothing but stare at him, he went on, “Yeah, yeah. I could come, be your rock, keep you stable, and get some of the attention off your sister and her fiancé.”
“No, you can’t come.” I couldn’t believe I had to tell him this.
“Why not? I’m supposed to help you out with your stalker problem. Technically he already thinks I’m your boyfriend, right? Might as well keep the charade going, then. Maybe seeing me with you will get him to make a move—”
“You are not pretending to be my boyfriend ever again.”
Brett was unconvinced. “My hair will be fixed, I’ll wear those dorky clothes you got me from Goodwill, and no one will recognize me. Trust me. It’ll be fine.”
“Okay, first, I definitely do not trust you—”
“Ouch,” he deadpanned, rubbing his chest over his heart, like I’d actually hurt him or something.
“Second off, how the hell would I explain to my parents and my sister that I’m dating a thirty-one-year-old? It’s me we’re talking about. They’d think it’s weird, Brett. I’ve only ever dated Zak. No way in hell would I ever date someone in secret.”
Brett lifted a finger. “You would if you were afraid of what they’d say—a perfect reason you kept me a secret.”
