Page 62 of Perfect on Paper

But it wasn’tsupershitty, right? I mean, I was just looking out for her.

Wasn’t I?

Brougham’s comment earlier today about gut feelings popped into my mind. Something told me he was right. If I’d done it for the right reasons, I wouldn’t feel so terrible about it all. I might as well be honest with myself.

Brougham had thoughtfully paused the movie when I left the room, so I hadn’t missed anything. I sat back down in my warm spot, and my shoulder bumped against Brougham’s. Had he been sitting this close to me before? No way, there’d been like five inches between us. He must have readjusted his blanket while I was gone. To my surprise, even though our arms were all but mashed together now, he didn’t make any move to pull away. He must have been as cold as I was.

He stayed right where he was for the rest of the movie, in fact. The warmth of his body made me feel snuggly and cozy, even with the light drizzle outside. Every now and then he glanced sideways at me with a funny expression, like he was expecting me to do or say something, but god only knew what.

When the movie finished, he stretched out like a cat, then climbed to his feet. “I hope I didn’t overstay my welcome.”

“What? No, not at all.”

“I just realized you’ve been putting up with me for almost seven hours now. I’ve just ordered an Uber.”

Wow, seven hours? It hadn’t felt that long. Was this some sort of rejection preempt? Like, criticizing himself so I couldn’t do it first? “No, I enjoyed it. It was fun. You should’ve let me take you home, though.”

He shook his head. His shoulders seemed to lose some of their tension, though. “Nah, it’s late.” He folded the blanket while I got up to walk him to the door. He passed it back to me, and I took it, and he held onto it for just a second too long. He must really be dreading going home.

“I hope everything’s okay back at your house,” I said.

He seemed surprised. “Oh, yeah, it’ll be fine. No stress. I’d almost forgotten about that, actually.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“Darcy, thank you, but honestly, I’ve been living with them for seventeen years now. I know the ropes. I’m fine.”

“Okay. Well. I’ll see you, then, I guess.”

“I’ll let you know if I need any advice,” he said. “And… good luck with Brooke. I know advice isn’t exactly my area of expertise, but if you do need to talk about it, I’m an okay listener. I think.”

I smiled. “You are. ’Night.”

It wasn’t until I closed the door behind him that I realized he’d called me Darcy.

Back in the living room, everything was normal, until it wasn’t. The first thing I noticed that looked off was that the box of tissues that usually sat on top of the coffee table was now on the floor, slotted in behind one of the wooden table legs. That wasn’t that weird, I figured—maybe Brougham had grabbed a tissue without me noticing. But on a hunch, I scanned the rest of the room.

It was the same, but different, in small, subtle ways. The patchwork blanket we kept folded at the unused end of the sofa had been turned so it faced the armrest in a diamond. The coffee table had been moved out by about half a foot, leaving deep tracks in the carpet from where it’d sat stationary for the last several years. Our hot chocolate mugs were now perfectly back to back so they formed mirror images of each other, and the curtains were drawn just enough to let a sliver of streetlight through, and the floor lamp was shining light into the hall when it wasdefinitelyfacing the sofa this afternoon.

Nope, no, no, no, fuck this, this was creepy asshit. Even though my mind jumped straight to Brougham—that asshole—something small and secret whispered, “But what if it’s real?” What if the Pincers were real and they knew I was in the room alone? Mom and Ainsley were both fast asleep by this point, and I couldn’t wake them up for this, could I? Wasn’t that a little hysterical?Was I hysterical?

I squished up against the arm of the couch and sent a text to Brougham demanding an explanation. When two minutes had passed and he still hadn’t responded—and something scraped against the window thatmighthave been a tree branch but also might have been a Pincer searching for a way inside—I called him.

He answered in a breathless voice. “Hey?”

“Did you move everything in my living room?”

“Why would you think that?”

Oh no, oh god, itwasn’thim. At least if I died now, I’d have him on the phone to witness my screaming. He could tell my parents what happened. “Because everything’smoved.”

“That does make sense then.”

“Did you or not?”

“Well, let’s see. Did I have any opportunity?”

Oh, of course he didn’t. He’d been right there with me the whole time. Unless… “I went to the bathroom halfway through,” I said triumphantly.

---