Page 41 of Perfect on Paper

“IT SUCKS!” I shouted, getting to my feet to make a point. The carriage chose that moment to tip and slide down to the end, and I screamed bloody murder. “OH MY GOD, NO, HELP,” I yelled, gripping onto the bars near the door. My body was thrown against my seat, and I toppled backward so I was splayed awkwardly across the bench. I’d almost certainly bruised a butt cheek, and maybe also a spot on my back that’d crashed into the back of the carriage.

“Hey!” Brougham rose up with his hands outstretched, his face stricken, but I waved him off, laughing so hard I fell off my seat and onto the floor with my knees up as the carriage swung violently back and forth. “IT SUCKS,” I shouted again, this time directing my yelling at the ceiling.

Brougham sat back down and shook his head at me, then, amazingly, cracked a smile. A real, actual smile, honest to god. I felt like I was probably the first person to ever witness this. I couldn’t have been more amazed if it were my own kid taking their first steps. “It sucks,” Brougham cried, halfway to a yell.

“Louder.”

“IT. SUCKS.” He slapped both hands down on the bench he sat on, and I applauded, still on the floor.

“You know what else sucks?” I asked.

Brougham stuck out a hand and helped me back onto my seat. “What?”

My laughter trickled into a drip, and my voice came out tinny. “I’m in love with my best friend. And she’s got a new girlfriend.”

“Wait, Brooke?”

I nodded.

“Shit, Phillips, thatdoessuck. We’re as screwed as each other.”

I laughed despite myself. “Nah, you’re less screwed. You have me, and we’re not done yet. How about—”

“Actually, I need some time to think.”

My first reaction was surprise. Then it shifted into something more akin to offense. What, one strike and I was out? Hadn’t I said they’d need to be friends first? Did he think I wasn’t worth the money just because they weren’t passionately kissing on the Mickey Wheel right now?

Worse than that, worse than him feeling that way, was the fearful little voice in the back of my mind whisperinghe’s right.I had failed. I was no Coach Pris, no Oriella.

I couldn’t see myself, but if I could, I was pretty sure dismay would’ve been carved into every feature. And it only took Brougham glancing at me for him to add a hurried addendum. “I’m really grateful for everything you did. And honestly, I’m impressed. You’re good at this. Better than I expected.” He shrugged. “And I’m not saying I’m calling it quits. But maybe… a hiatus?”

Okay. Well, that was fair. Because hearing Brougham talk about his relationship with Winona? Put it this way: if he wanted me to help him, I would, and I would do mybest.But I couldn’t say I was convinced either one of them were all that healthy for each other. Maybe I was wrong. There was probably lots and lots I didn’t know. But I did know some things.

If Winona was as Brougham described, withdrawing into silence whenever she felt smothered, and shutting down emotionally, immune to his pleas for empathy and affection, I’d put money on her being a dismissive-avoidant. Honestly, it made sense. The avoidant and the anxious often found each other. Maybe because the highs and lows felt like love. And maybe because people loved the familiar, and finding someone who was inherently wrong for them reinforced all the negative views about relationships they’d grown so comfortable holding: that they will suffocate you and steal your independence, or that they’ll leave you alone and bleeding.

An anxiously attached person who feared rejection and a dismissive-avoidant who feared being consumed by closeness would constantly overwhelm each other unless they both put a lot of effort into understanding their triggersand learning coping techniques. Ultimately, if Brougham wanted things to work with Winona, they’d both need to unlearn their views. And from where I was standing, she didn’t exactly seem to be seeking help in rekindling their romance.

But it wasn’t the time or place to dump all these what-ifs on Brougham. So I just leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees as the wheel brought us back to where we started.

“Well, if you decide you want to try again one day, you know where to find me.”

CHAPTER TEN

Dear Locker 89,

It’s me again. You were such a help last time, thank you so much for your advice. I struggled with writing this letter, because, in a weird way, it feels like you know me and you were rooting for me. I hope this won’t change that.

I have a confession. The girl I wrote in about last time? She’s now my girlfriend (yay!) but I’ve been hiding a secret from her. Last year we were in competition for something (I don’t want to say what because it’ll give me away), and I wanted it so badly I did something awful. Long story short, I rigged it so I won. This was before I liked her. The problem is, I told a couple of my friends about it this week (I cracked from the guilt), and it’s not necessarily that I think they’ll tell on me? It’s that I know if they did, she’d never forgive me.

I guess what I’m asking is… do you think I should tell her myself? I’m terrified of how she’ll react, but more terrified of her finding out through someone else. Just… please tell me if you think I’m making a huge mistake.

Thank you,

[email protected]

The letter, which had made me see red, sat hidden in my desk drawer under three textbooks back at home.

Right now, all I could see was black, as I sat motionless on Brooke’s bed with my eyes closed and my head tipped back, waiting for Brooke to finish my eye shadow, her warm hand resting on my forehead. “Cut-crease time,” she’d declared ten minutes ago, pulling out her kit. It was pathetic, but I was thrilled to hear those words, because it meant I got a solid ten minutes of attention from her.

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