Page 69 of Perfect on Paper

I took a few minutes to compose a text.

I am so, so sorry. Please don’t take me running away badly. I just need some time to think. I’ll message you soon, okay?

A few minutes later, during which I paced about three full laps of the parking lot, I got a response.

It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.

I let out a sigh of relief. Okay. This was okay. It was fine. Fine was good.

Okay.

Where was Ainsley?

I chewed on my finger. I had to talk to someone now.Now.

So, I dialed Brooke’s number.

She picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

Down the far end of the street, I could make out Ainsley’s car pulling up at a red light.

I opened my mouth to reply to Brooke. To saynothing much. To say everything had changed. To say I didn’t know what to do.

But instead of speaking, I burst into tears.

FIFTEEN

Self-Analysis:

Darcy Phillips

Did my parents fail to respond to my crying as an infant? Probably. I remember whenHow I Met Your Motherwas on, Mom and Dad would flat-out refuse to let me talk as a kid. I had to go to my room. Well, now look, you guys made me terrified of vulnerability,thanks a lot!Assholes.

I do start feeling panicky when I think someone wants to kiss me. Remember Sara in eighth grade? If she’d tried, I might have bitten her tongue off I was so stressed out. All because my parents wouldn’t taketwo secondsaway from watching their stupid sitcom to parent me my whole infancy. Wow. Really, it’s a miracle I survived this long.

Has a fearful avoidant attachment style?

Probably needs therapy.

Definitely needs a hug.

Ainsley knocked on the door and poked her head around the gap. “Want some Phish Food?”

I met her eyes with a pitiful frown and pressed my hands together, waving them like a fish swimming, like we’d done as kids. She rushed in with a mostly full pint, sat cross-legged on the bed, and handed me a spoon. Mom, presumably, was grading papers or something. She hadn’t noticed me holing up in my room to mope, in any case. She hadn’t even noticed I hadn’t grabbed any leftover casserole from the fridge for dinner.

While I dug through for a chunk of marshmallow fluff, Ainsley glanced at my notebook. “You did a profile on yourself?” she asked, reaching for it.

I nodded and stuffed an overloaded spoon of ice cream in my mouth. “I’ve been reflecting,” I said through a mouthful of goo.

“I can see that,” she said, scanning through the words. “Theywereassholes aboutHow I Met Your Mother.”

“Right?” I asked, passing her the pint. “And now I’m damaged. Which isgreat.”

“You should sue,” she agreed, then bit her tongue in a goofy smile. “So, explain this one to me?”

“It’s kind of like a mixture between anxious and dismissive-avoidant attachment,” I said. “It’s rare.”

“Likeyou!”

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