Page 115 of The Dare

They’re right, though. Much as I’d like to drag this fucker behind my Jeep, now would be a terrible time to get arrested. As long as that video of Taylor is out there, she’s a target. Who knows what kind of sick pervert might get a real dumb idea to mess with her. I’ve got to be here to watch her back, even if she doesn’t know I am.

I’d do anything to keep her safe.

“I’ll try,” I promise Taylor’s sorority sisters. My voice sounds raspy, so I clear my throat. “I’ll head over to her place now.”

If Abigail’s story about why Taylor broke it off is true, I’ve got to get her back. Up until this point, I hadn’t wanted to push Taylor too hard. Yeah, I probably blew up her phone too much the night she ended it, but I didn’t stand outside her window with a portable speaker or wait outside her classes with a banner. I didn’t want to be overbearing and wind up driving her further away.

But now I realize I was hiding too. The things she’d said that night had really hurt. She stirred up all my insecurities, and I’ve been nursing my pride ever since. I didn’t chase her or beg her to take me back because I didn’t think there was any reason for her to do that. Because I wasn’t worthy of her.

More than that, I think I was afraid of a final rejection there’d be no return from. If I avoided the subject, I could keep believing there was a chance, at some distant time, where we’d come back to each other. If I didn’t look in the box, the cat was both alive and dead.

This changes everything.

42

TAYLOR

IFEEL LIKEI’VE PUT ON FIVE POUNDS THIS WEEK ANDICAN’Tfind it in me to care. After the first shower I’ve taken in two days, I throw on a peasant top and a pair of jeans. My mom called yesterday to invite me to another family dinner with Chad and Brenna Jensen, so I have no choice but to make an effort. That means brushing my hair, too. Ugh.

This time they’re making the safe play to eat out at the Italian place in town rather than risk another cooking catastrophe. I’d tried to make an excuse to decline, but Mom wasn’t having it.

And then, of course, I had to dodge on the topic of Conor when she told me to invite him. I told her he was busy, and besides, whatever Coach might have said, he’d probably appreciate not having one of his players tagging along on all his dates. She bought it, albeit skeptically. Mom can read me like a book—I’m sure she’s guessed the relationship has fizzled out, but she’s gracefully declining to press for details.

As much as I’m dreading tonight, I suppose it offers a distraction from the obvious, a commercial break in my infinite binge and self-pity party.

I’ve just got my hair up in a ponytail when there’s knocking on the door. I check my phone for the time. They’re early. Whatever. I didn’t feel like putting on makeup anyway.

“Just give me a second to find my shoes,” I say as I fling open the door.

It isn’t my mom.

Not Brenna either.

Conor stands in my doorway. “Hey,” he says roughly.

I’m momentarily struck by him. It’s like my heart had forgotten his face. His aura. His magnetism and spirit. I’ve forgotten the electric air that crackles around us whenever we’re in the same space, my body still a slave to its baser instincts.

“You can’t be here,” I blurt out.

“Are you going somewhere?” He examines me, taken aback.

“I have plans.” As badly as I want to throw my arms around him, I force myself to stick to my guns. Bite down and bear it. “You can’t be here, Conor.”

Already the nerves are tightening my chest, butterflies taking flight in my stomach. The strong urge to slam the door in his face and hide rears its head, as shame and embarrassment join the tangle of emotions I’m already feeling. I’m a war within a war, at odds with myself and losing.

“We need to talk.” Conor takes up the entire doorway, all broad shoulders and wide chest. Tension pounds off him like a palpable drumbeat.

“Now’s not a good time.” I try to shut the door on him. Instead, he muscles his way through like I’m not even standing here.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he says, barging in, “but this can’t wait.”

“What the hell is the matter with you?” I charge into the living room after him.

His tone is flat, unhappy. “I know everything, T. Abigail came to my house and explained it all. The video, why you broke up with me. I know.”

Shock flies into me. Is he serious? And here I thought Abigail and I had an understanding. We’re really going to have to work on our communication.

“Well, I’m sorry she involved you,” I mutter, “but it’s really none of your concern, so—”

---