Page 133 of Relationship Goals

“Right. You had me really worried. That was a bad one.”

His expression shutters, and the sharp blade of reality cuts through my lightheaded haze.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. There’s a brown paper bag on the table, a prescription for antianxiety meds. I vaguely remember taking one last night. “Darren called my doctor?”

“He got Jean to do it.”

“Jean knows?” I want to cry. I don’t want Jean to think I’m more of a fuckup than I already am. I need Jean on my side.

“Abigail, you can’t just pretend like the anxiety is nothing. It won’t help.”

There it is again, that shame, because deep down, I know he’s right. I don’t want him to be right.

“Why are you here?” I ask him softly. There’s an undercurrent of anger running through me, but after last night, I just feel tired.

Tired and so confused.

“Why do you think I’m here, Abigail?” he counters, and I see that same anger in his eyes.

It hurts so much more than it should.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I take a long, deep breath. I’m too tired to keep it up anymore. In a moment of clarity, I make up my mind and open my eyes.

“About Darren—” I start.

“Gerard?” he interrupts, a mean set to his mouth. He’s never looked at me like that before.

“You don’t get to be mad,” I tell him, gathering the little strength I have left. “I know all about how you didn’t want to date me, how you’ve been faking it with me just to get something out of your stupid fucking bosses.”

My chest shakes, and I suck in a shaky breath, sure I’m about to cry hot, angry tears.

But nothing happens. Well, that’s probably thanks to the antianxiety meds. Or the fact I might have actually managed to sweat out all my extra liquid last night.

I suck down some more electrolytes, my head pounding.

All the tendons stand out on his neck, his pulse throbbing in his temple. He’s paled, his blue eyes dark with some emotion I’m too tired to figure out.

“Who told you?” he asks. His voice is so low I hardly catch the question.

“Gold. He called Michelle when he was drunk. In Vegas.”

“Fucking hell.” He rakes a hand through that deliciously silky black hair.

The urge to comfort him, to wipe that dejected expression off his face, rides me hard, catching me by complete surprise.

I never thought I was a people pleaser, but the wave of unease that creeps over my skin has less to do with how physically awful I feel and more to do with the sudden realization that Darren is right: I completely fucked up.

And yet, I’m still mad. So mad. And hurt.

“This is why you’ve been so off these past few days, huh?” His mouth’s a tight line, and if we weren’t talking about all the ways we’ve fucked each other over, I might think he wasn’t trying to smile.

As it is, he might be holding back screaming at me.

I wouldn’t blame him. I want to scream at him. I want to explode.

I don’t, though. I just wait, my heart in painful pieces.

“You’ve been trying to…” He trails off, shaking his head.

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