Page 11 of Perfect Score

Zoey: I couldn’t ask my last match. He wore sweats to our date. And not cute ‘going to the gym’ sweats. Like nasty sweats, not even a secondhand store would have taken in.

Phoebe: Damn, you’re picky.

I hate when people call us singletons picky.

I’m not picking out a nail color at the salon for a manicure that will only last a couple of weeks. I’m selecting my potential life partner.

And if it were up to me, I’d already be married…to Liam.

Zoey: He took me to a nice Italian restaurant. I wore heels and a bodycon dress. It was the appropriate attire for the evening, I promise you.

Everyone in the restaurant stared at us. I wasn’t the only one who found his attire off-putting and out of the dress code for a restaurant that garners that kind of waitlist to get a table.

Then, he had the audacity to ask if we could split the bill.

It’s not like I mind sharing the tab, especially if things aren’t going well, and we each want to cut our losses. But as we walked out of the restaurant, he said that we should head back to my place because his wife was probably asleep already.

Ick!

Zoey: And it turned out he was married… like they all seem to be.

I decided to add it for good measure since she called me “picky.”

Luckily enough, my rideshare rolled up, and I jumped in, closing the door behind me. When my date tried the door, I told the driver to hit the gas, and I’d pay him double.

Phoebe: What a douche.

Phoebe: OK, then, did you try out any of those male escort services I sent you? Or what about a male stripper? He’ll at least look good in a tux. Or, in a pinch, we could probably find you one of thoseChristmas gram guys. They’re always trying to make a quick dollar.

I hear Brent snicker to my left. Glancing over, I find him smirking over my shoulder. Damn him.

“Did you read that?” I snap.

“Which part? About the married slob or the male prostitute that your sister wants you to hire for her wedding?”

I let out a growl and shake my head. It was better when we didn’t speak.

I pull my phone back up and tip the screen toward the snoring passenger sitting in the window seat next to me so that Brent can’t see it.

Zoey: What did I do to the universe that it hates me so much? I’m sitting next to Brent Tomlin on the plane, and he read my texts.

I lay my phone down and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as I lean back in my chair.

My phone vibrates again.

I open my eyes and flip my phone back over to read it.

Phoebe: Oh my God! You should ask Brent to be your fake boyfriend! Liam will be insanely jealous that you’re dating him.

There’s no way. That’s a terrible idea. I can barely stand to be around him for two hours, let alone the entire weekend. But… Phoebe isn’t wrong. Liam would hate it. He’d hate it a lot.

If I truly want Liam to burn with jealousy and realize that he made a mistake breaking up with me, there isn’t anyone better suited for the job than the left-defense for the Seattle Hawkeyes sitting right next to me.

Liam was a freshman in college, and he said the distance was getting hard for him. When Brent heard he ended things, he showed up at my house and decorated my entire front porch in daisies and candles, asking if I would go with him to prom.

Looking back, I think Brent felt obligated to ask me. Maybe since Liam had graduated and Brent was the new captain of the hockey team, he somehow had to continue living Liam’s legacy. Which included taking the girlfriend Liam had just broken up with to prom.

I was excited about going with Brent. He was always nice to me and used to sneak me extra snacks in Spanish class when our teacher wasn’t looking. My favorite was the trail mix with white chocolate chips, cashews, and raisins. He always had a ziplock bag just for me in his backpack. And occasionally, I’d find a little baggie of the snack in the spot where I always sat on the bleachers when I went to watch them practice.

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