Page 21 of Personal Foul
And really I’ve only edited my history. I didn’t make up whole entire stories. I just mostly talked about life before high school, and when I did talk about high school, I limited myself to very general stories.
Now I’m lying and lying and lying. And I’m hurting her. I see it every time she looks at my hand in Dylan’s.
And I hate it.
CHAPTER TEN
Dylan
I’m not really sure what I expected out of this double date, but I sure as hell expected a lot more out of Charity.
She’s the reason for all of this. She’s the one with the secrets that necessitated our fake relationship. She’s the one who asked for this double date. And she’s still acting like she’s worried she’ll get leprosy if she touches me.
This is not at all how I wanted to spend my evening. At least after dinner we’re doing a fun activity. Charity insisted that we do something. She suggested bowling, but that’s gonna be a no from me. This is a date. Not a child’s birthday party.
Instead, we’re going axe throwing.
Maybe taking a chick who hates me to a place where she’s allowed to throw sharp objects isn’t the greatest idea, but I’m confident she won’t harm me in front of witnesses. Besides, it might give her the chance to work out some of that pent-up aggression. I’ve seen her going to town on my counters while muttering to herself after I say something that pisses her off. I don’t think that’s enough to get all that out, though.
She can imagine my face in the bullseye if she wants. It might do her some good.
Fortunately, we make it through dinner without any more questions about my relationship with Charity. We’re going to have to come up with a plausible story—where was our first date? When did we first kiss? When did we start hanging out without the rest of the group?
If we end up in more situations like this, that’s bound to come up, especially with our nosy friends.
Hell, with my luck, they’ll ask me when she’s not around, and then she’ll get pissed when I tell her whatever story I spin for them after the fact.
Maybe I should just call the whole thing off. I’m not sure why I’m bothering. This is way more work than just keeping a secret. And way more of an imposition on me than just making sure I’m home while she’s over to clean the apartment.
It sounded like a good idea at first—I’ve wanted an opportunity for our relationship to change, to stop blackmailing her in a way that she’ll believe is for real and won’t have negative consequences for her. I thought maybe if we had to spend time together, pretend to like each other—well, I don’t have to pretend that much, but she does—maybe pretending could turn into reality. Kind of a fake it till you make it situation.
But getting her to even pretend to like me seems impossible. How likely is she to go from being unable to even pretend to save her own ass to actually liking me for real?
Disgusted with myself and the situation I’ve created, I pay for everyone. I don’t want to deal with the hassle of trying to split the bill when the waitress brings out one check. This night’s been rough enough, and I just want an easy win. “Thanks, man,” Andrew says quietly.
“No problem.”
After I sign the receipt, we all stand, gathering our coats. “Charity, you’ll ride with me. Andrew, you’re with Isabelle.”
Charity opens her mouth, and I just fucking know she’s going to protest. But then she glances at the other two, who are already walking toward the exit, and she simply says, “Sounds good.”
Thank fucking Christ.
Coming around the table, I take her coat from her and hold it out. Her brows wrinkle together like she’s confused. Has no one ever held her coat before? Seriously? But then she puts her arms in her sleeves, pulling her hair out from under her collar and straightening it before grabbing her purse. When I rest my hand on her back, she gives me another confused look, but doesn’t protest. I’m not sure why me acting like we’re on a date is confusing for her. I thought I’ve been pretty clear all along that I’m willing to keep up the pretense. I thought she was willing to as well. She said she would. But her efforts are half-assed at best. Quarter-assed is more like it. Carrying the entire relationship for both of us is getting old.
Once we’re safely in my car, she decides to fill me in on the source of her confusion. “Isabelle and Andrew were already halfway to the door. You don’t need to hold my coat for me or put your hand on me like we’re an actual couple.”
Clenching my jaw, I start the ignition and tap the address of the axe throwing place into my car’s GPS. “Look, sweetheart—”
“Oh, and that’s another thing,” she cuts in. “Babe? Seriously? That’s going to be your pet name for me in public?”
Arching an eyebrow, I glance at her before backing out of the parking spot. “You’d prefer … snookums? Sugar tits?” We both look at her chest.
She whacks me on the arm. “Hey!”
I can’t help laughing. “Seriously. I’m doingyouthe favor here.” At least that’s what I’m telling her. Really, I’m just prolonging my own torture. “The least you can do is hold up your end of the bargain. Otherwise, why am I even bothering?”
That sobers her. She looks out the window, then down at her hands and clears her throat. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” I hear her take in a breath, and when I look at her, her eyes are closed. But she opens them and looks at me. “You handled the question about how we got together really well. We should probably come up with some kind of story, though.”
