“I’m really trying here, Dornan,” he whispers, and when those warm, honeyed eyes lift to mine, I nearly cave.
Because I want to believe it—that he can be different despite him proving, time and again, that he’s the same old Damian who tricked me my freshman year. I want to believe it because, otherwise, I have to accept that the person I hate more than anyone in the entire world is also the very person my body seems to crave the most…and I’m struggling to reconcile the two.
I shake my head. “That’s the problem,” I say, forcing a needed wall up between us. “You think ‘trying’ means everything gets excused with an easy smile or wit because you have your name and your family’s money to back it up. But it doesn’t.”
The light in his eyes instantly dims, taking any hint of an apology with it. “Because my problems are insignificant, right?Nothing at all compared torealproblems.” His tone is lethal and razor sharp, like a knife angled at my heart.
I step an inch closer, unafraid of getting cut. “Am I wrong?”
A tight, sarcastic smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. “Nope, that’s me: privileged asshole who never has to face the consequences of my actions. Oh, wait…” His eyes blacken with derision. “Well, you got it half right, at least.”
“Yeah,” I retort, “the asshole part. Are we done here?”
He smiles again, though this time, the curve to his mouth is serpentine. Like pieces on a chess board, he mimics my movement, stepping closer, his long legs eating the distance between us. “I don’t know. You tell me.Arewe done?”
Part of me wants to be. It’s been nearly two months of this, and I am beyond exhausted; I have no clue how I’ll last until the deadline, or if there’s even any point in keeping this charade going any longer. Maybe I should just swallow my pride and ask Ronnie for the money I need for my mom. It would certainly be easier than dealing with this.
“We could be,” I answer. “Our impending ‘break-up’ is already plastered all over the internet according to Ronnie and Andie.”
Thankfully, the video that aired of our fight at Fernando’s didn’t manage to pick up what we were saying, so it just looks like any other lover’s spat, leaving the internet with nothing better to do than to theorize what we argued about. We could use that to our advantage, avoid any further scandal and take the easy out it offers us, ending things here and now. Or we can keep up this sham of an arrangement that I had fooled myself into thinking was actually working when in reality…who the hell knows what it was.
Damian shakes his head. “It’s nothing that can’t be walked back.”
“With another lie?” I ask.
He exhales a strained laugh. “This whole thing between us is a lie, Dornan. It always has been. I don’t know why you’re suddenly so bent out of shape over that.”
He’s right. This entire situationisa lie, and I have willingly participated in this facade fully knowing that. But things changed when he made that post because that lie now extends into unwelcome territory. Into viewpoints I don’t want to lie about…and into words I don’t want to hear someone say to me,aboutme, unless they wholeheartedly mean them.
And the fact that Damian can’t seem to see that is exactly why this won’t work out.
He must see the unspoken decision on my face because he grabs me by the wrist when I try to walk away again. “Wait. Stop. I take it back. I do know why you’re mad.”
Bullshit.I tug at his grip on my arm, attempting to wrench my hand free.
“Stop,” he breathes. “Please?”
I stiffen at that whispered request—at the raw desperation I sense behind that one word. There’s no way he’s faking that, not unless he’s a way better actor than I gave him credit for.
Drawing in a breath, I turn to meet his gaze once more. “Okay, enlighten me. Why am I mad?”
He swallows, and the sound is audible in the hushed emptiness of the stacks. “Because I forced a narrative you didn’t agree to. A narrative I had no right to force. It’s not my place to say whether or not you forgive me. Or if you should.”
His words and tone are alarmingly earnest, so much so I have difficulty discerning if he actually means it or if this is just another calculated lie. The lines between the two are becoming too blurry for me to see clearly.
That exhaustion I’ve felt far too frequently throughout the last month creeps in again, and I press my back to the bookcase behind me, rubbing a hand over my face. “I just don’t know,Damian. This is all starting to feel…messy. I mean, is there even any point in continuing this?” I move a hand back and forth in the narrow space between our chests. “Is there a chance, however small, that your parentsactuallycare whether you have a girlfriend or not? Is it even making a difference?”
His gaze bores into mine. “Maybe. More than likely not. But if we quit now, I won’t ever know.”
I see it then: the fear in his eyes. An achingly familiar terror I know all too well, having felt it every single day for the last year and a half myself. For the first time, I wonder if there’s more to his situation than he’s previously said. If his problems aren’t quite as small as I berated him for.
“Besides,” he continues before I can wrap my head around that thought, “it’s helping you, isn’t it? That’s worth something at least.”
My chest seizes at the sincerity in his tone and at the unabashed plea in his gaze. He might not have meant the apology he posted online, but he means this.No oneis that good at lying.
A nervous feeling flutters in the bottom-most depths of my stomach. Would it be wrong of me to accept? Do I even want to?
Think of Mom. Do it for Mom,I remind myself, and that thought is all it takes to sway me.
