Page 21 of Perfect on Paper

“My imagination isn’t vivid enough forthatfeat.”

“Fuck you and try!”

A stony glare, then a slight head dip that was apparently a go-ahead.

“Brougham, what’s a pirate’s favorite letter?”

He stared at me. “You’re not serious?”

“I’m not feeling very charmed right now, Brougham, so play along, would you?”

He let out a sigh sufficiently loud and long enough to let me knowjusthow he felt about this exercise, then rolled his eyes and offered, “R?”

I hopped on the spot and clapped my hands. “Ahh, you’dthinkso, but his true love be the C!” My pirate voice was good enough to be on Nickelodeon voice-overs.

Brougham blinked and scrunched his mouth up in a pitying sort of way. He didn’t laugh even a little bit.

“Like, ‘sea,’” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry, I got it.”

“Brougham!You’re not even trying.”

“Trust me, if a girl makes a joke like that on a date, any inclination I have to flirt with her will evaporate.”

“What if she’s nervous?”

“Wouldn’t blame her,” he said mildly. “Iamintimidating.”

“Then, when you’relaughing”—I raised my eyebrows at him, pointedly—“you can grab their arm and act like it’s just because you found them so funny. Like this,” I demonstrated, buckling forward in sudden, fake laughter, and gripped his toned bicep.

He surveyed my hand on his arm with a look of mild alarm. “You know what?” he asked, removing my hand delicately. “I think I’ll be okay without the flirting tips.”

“Fine.” I wasn’t thrown. I camepreparedtoday. “Next, we’re going to do a timeline of your relationship with Winona.”

“Why?”

My head whipped up, and I damn near shot flames from my eyeballs. “Because I said so, Brougham, goddamnit.”

“Darcy, nomurdering!” Ainsley’s voice sung out from down the hall.

Brougham’s eyes flickered toward the door. “Okay, sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “Go on.”

“Right,” I stuck the marker in my mouth and pulled the lid off with my teeth. The tinny smell of the Sharpie cleared out my sinuses. “Wew wid you guysh meet?”

“On a field trip bus. I accidentally knocked her backpack off her seat.”

I nodded, leaned over him, and drew a stick figure round-kicking a backpack into midair, next to a shocked-looking stick figure gaping on a vague imitation of a bus seat.

“It was absolutely nothing like that,” Brougham said.

“It’s called artistic expression, Brougham, look it up.” I finished off the drawing with a flourish and stuck it to the board with a thumbtack. “Perfect. First date?”

“It was actually a group thing, and we—”

“Doesn’t count. First real date.”

Brougham regarded me like he was hoping I might combust. “We went bowling.”

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