Page 37 of Not Quite Perfect

“You think?” he encouraged when I didn’t immediately continue, his shoulders tight … as if he was bracing himself for bad news.

I blew out a breath. If I couldn’t bring myself to have a mature, adult conversation about our relationship, I wasn’t ready tobein a relationship. It was just that it’d been so damn long since I’d had one that I was rusty and out of practice. Baring your innermost feelings was never easy at the best of times; doing so when things were so unsettled was even more difficult.

“I like you, David. I probably even love you.”

He winced and pulled his hand from mine. His face shut down, his eyes dimming as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Hmm, and here I thought we’d already said our ‘I love yous.’”

This was the moment I’d been avoiding. We’d rushed headlong into the wholeI love youthing without really knowing one another, and now it felt like I was backtracking. Well, not backtracking so much as hitting pause. But I needed to make sure that’s what this actually was. If I was going to cause a huge rift with mother with my choice of partner, I needed to know it was worth it.

IthoughtDavid was … but I needed more time to be sure.

“I know. And I meant it. But …” I dropped my eyes to the table and drew circles with the pad of my finger. God, this was so much more difficult when he was sitting across from me.

I’d practiced this conversation in my head countless times until I thought I knew what to say, but now that it was happening, I couldn’t seem to find my words.

“But what, Victoria?” His voice was hard, his tone gruff.

I raised my eyes back up and squared my shoulders. “If we do this—” I wagged my finger between us “—that’s it for me. The next time I say those words to you, I want them to be forever. So until I know that’s what this really is, I think we need to take a step back.”

“A step back.” He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What happened to moving forward?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” I told him, praying he would understand where I was coming from. “When we’re alone and naked in bed, Iknowyou’re the one for me. No one’s ever made me feel the way you do. But when we’renotin bed, you have to admit things are a little less defined. I don’t actually know that much about you. Like, what’s your favorite meal? Or, what do you think about the Patriots? You know, for example.”

“I hate football.”

“See, me too. But I didn’t know that about you.”

His shoulders drooped. “I knew that about you.”

“How? We’ve literally never had a conversation where we talked about football, or how much I hate Tom Brady’s smug face.”

He stared at me for a beat, and there was so much written in his expression that it nearly broke me: disappointment, realization, heartbreak, and determination. I had to look away.

“Not specifically, no,” he finally answered. “But last week when we were on our way to the movies, you and Theo were texting and he must have said something about the game because you shook your head and said, ‘He knows I fucking hate the Patriots’ as you typed out your response.”

My palms dropped to the table in surprise. “But that was like a two-second comment made under my breath. How did you … what did … ugh.” I cringed, and then opened one eye to peer at him. “It was a throwaway comment.”

He nodded. “It was.”

All at once disappointment washed over me. I was a terrible girlfriend. Even worse, I was a horrible person. I’d been acting like some sort of sanctimonious asshole by withholding sex because I was supposedly worried about intimacy. Meanwhile, it was my fault our relationship lackedtrueintimacy. “I am a no-good, terrible, horrible person.”

David’s lips hitched to the side in a sad smile. “And just like I know you can’t stand the Patriots, I also know that’s your immediate reaction when you feel like you’re not holding up your end of a bargain. Your brother comes out to you, and even though you said all the right things, you still feel bad because maybe you didn’t sayenoughright things.”

He continued listing off all the recent times I’d come to a similar conclusion about myself. As he did, I realized I had some deep seated self-esteem issues that I probably needed to talk to someone about—professionally.

“You take three days to return an email from someone who only writes to you to brag about her fabulous life, and you feel horrible that you didn’t immediately respond to congratulate her. Your mom’s been married six times, and you feel like a terrible daughter because you’re worried that if we’re together she doesn’t get to be happy too. News flash: you’re not a horrible person. You’re actually a terrific person … just one who could stand work on her communications skills.”

I rested my elbows on the table and dropped my face into my palms. “I’m terrible at this.”

David pulled my hands away. “It’s true; you’re not great.” He chuckled. “But I’m not going anywhere, Victoria. Even if you’re not ready to say it, I am. I love you, and I want this to work. You just have to talk to me.”

I nodded and felt a tear slide down my cheek. “Right now I kind of hate you.”

He smirked, so I knew he didn’t believe the obvious lie. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you’re so much better at this than I am.”

He pushed up out of his chair and dropped down into a crouch next to me. Wiping an errant tear from my cheek, he placed a quick, soft kiss to my lips. “Stick with me, babe, and you’ll be an expert in no time.”

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