Page 61 of Personal Foul
“Well, Dylan,” I start, fully aware of how patronizing I sound and leaning into it, “it’s funny because we’re not dating. So how can we break up?”
He rolls his eyes and finally comes back into the room to flop onto the couch. “We’ve been over this. You and I are the only ones who know it’s fake. So in order to end our fake relationship, we have to stage a breakup. Is that what you want?”
Is it?
Some part of me is yelling at me to say yes, absolutely it is. But the other part of me wonders … “I wouldn’t see you any more if we broke up.”
He huffs out an annoyed laugh. “That’s the general idea, yeah. I’m a giant douchebag, so why would you want to see me anymore anyway?”
I mull that over, moving my mouth from side to side. “You haven’t been a douchebag today.”
“Oh my god,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.
Laughing again, I shake my head. “Why is that upsetting?”
He turns and smacks the cushion next to him lightly. “Then why call me a douchebag at all?”
“It just popped out!” I hold my hands out, like I’m physically offering the explanation to him. “It’s my default thought about you. Or it has been.”
“And now?”
I shake my head. “And now what?”
“What’s your default thought about me now?” His eyes are strangely intense.
“Uhh …”
He sighs. “Never mind. So how should we do it?”
“Hold on.” I hold out a hand to stop him. “I never said I wanted to, number one. And at this point, I don’t really have a default thought about you. Confusion is the overriding feeling at this point.”
He studies me, solemn. “Confusion about what?”
I spread my hands. “This? Everything. We went from me being your servant to fake girlfriend to me sleeping over and now we’re friends? And you’re giving me a nickname? And not a dickish one, either. But a sort of nice one? Like …” I look all around. “I don’t know what to make of any of this. It’s a lot—on top of everything else—and I kinda have whiplash.”
That makes him chuckle and nod. “Alright. I can see that, I guess, when you put it out there like that.” He raises his eyes to mine. “I’m sorry, Charity. For everything. I didn’t—” He pauses, looking away. Then he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I didn’t think about how my actions would affect you at any point. Even when I found out about your dad, I wasn’t intending to blackmail you.”
“Then why did you?” I explode.
Another rueful chuckle and shake of his head. “I dunno.” He holds up his hands in supplication. “I wanted …” He looks away. “I wanted to spend time with you. Maybe it’s messed up, but I had fun when you said you wanted to see me ‘never the fuck again,’ and I liked pushing you for a reaction when we’d all hang out together. I wanted you to notice me, and you always tried to pretend I didn’t exist.”
He raises his eyes to mine. “The blackmail wasn’t planned. It wasn’t smart. And as soon as I set it in motion, I knew it was a mistake. But I couldn’t stop myself. And even if I tried to cancel it, I knew you wouldn’t believe that I’d keep your secrets for you for no reason. So I had to go through with it to keep the reason.” He shrugs. “Plus, you always let everyone push you around in high school. You actually stood up to me some of the time here. I wanted you to keep standing up for yourself. To me. To your friends. To everyone. What kinds of friends would hold your family against you?”
I hesitate, not sure how to answer.
He holds up his hands. “You don’t have to answer that. I’m sure you have your reasons. Just … if your friends don’t like you for who you are—and that includes all of your background—I don’t know why you’d want to be friends with them. I know you had a shitty time with friends in high school, but surely you can make more genuine friends now.”
Before I can respond, he stands and takes the empty plate from my hand, disappearing into the kitchen and leaving me to stew on his words.
I have to admit he has a good point. But I’ve hidden so much for so long that I don’t see a way out that doesn’t include blowing up my whole life. I can’t even imagine what Isabelle would say if I finally told her the truth. That my family’s had money all this time, but hey, no worries, my lies have come true. Now we don’t! Oh, and by the way, my dad might go to prison.
Acid rises up my throat at the thought of that conversation.
Chances are, I’ll have to tell her something sooner or later, but I have no idea what that should be. So I’m delaying that moment for as long as I can.
The water runs for a minute or two, and then Dylan’s back in the doorway, this time with his shoulder propped against the door, his eyes hooded as he surveys me. “What would you like to do now?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
