Page 42 of The Problem with Perfect

“I saw them when we pulled in but didn’t even think about something like a kiss. Great idea.”

She’s panting, and her pupils are blown, and I want nothing more than to tug her toward me and continue what we started.

But then what she said hits me: she thinks I kissed her because I saw Connor. What’s more, she kissed me backbecauseshesaw Connor.

I nod. “I’m glad you figured it out.”

Turning off the ignition, I shove my door open and step onto the dirt road, my feet kicking up little clouds of dust as my shoes hit the ground. Bellamy follows suit and rounds the front, and we begin walking down the path toward the large campsite in the middle of Forks that serves as the main hub for bonfire night.

Now, the last thing I want to do is go to this stupid thing. I’m too old. Isn’t that what Bellamy told me the last time we were here? I’m pretty sure she even accused me of selling beer to underage kids.

What I want to do is go home and drown myself in whiskey, because all my mind can think about is that kiss, and it’s killing me to know she thought it was for show when it wasn’t.

I startle when Bellamy slips her hand into mine, our fingers interlocking in a way that shouldn’t feel as incredible as it does.

“We should hold hands, right?” she asks, looking up at me as we continue walking.

Swallowing, I nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

Bellamy nods, too.

I try not to think about the kiss, about her hand in mine.

Or about the little thing inside of me saying this isn’t at all what I expected.

* * *

“I shouldn’t have had that much to drink.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I just reach across Bellamy and pull her seatbelt around her body to click it in.

Then I start my car and begin pulling out of my spot on the side of the road.

“But I just hate looking at him, you know?” She pauses. “How can love turn to hate so quickly?”

It’s a surprisingly intelligent question for such an inebriated person.

“I think love and hate are a lot more closely intertwined than you’d think,” I tell her, pulling out onto the dirt path and beginning the long, slow drive toward the main road. “Because you still love the person, you just hate the way they hurt you.”

“Yeah.”

I glance over at her in the dark, and the light from a passing lamp post illuminates her face enough for me to see she’s crying.

“He doesn’t deserve your tears,” I tell her, my voice gentle even though I’m boiling inside. “He doesn’t deserve them.”

“Yeah, I know.” She leans her head back against the seat. “I’m not actually crying over him, I’m just…mad at myself.”

“Why?”

She sighs, and instead of answering, she rolls down the window and leans her head against the edge, closing her eyes and letting the warm evening breeze waft across her skin and through her hair. How did I never notice how beautiful she is? She’s crying, and I still think she might be one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen.

I come to a stop, preparing to turn right toward her house, then she surprises me.

“Can I stay at your place tonight?” she asks. “I don’t want to go home.”

She looks up at me with sad eyes, and for whatever reason, I can’t say no. I turn my car to the left instead, heading to the southern part of the lake where the home I grew up in is tucked into a short, wide lot.

I’m not surprised when we walk through the front door and she walks straight to my liquor cabinet, tugging out some crappy tequila gathering dust and pouring herself a shot. I know I should head to bed and leave her to her own demise. I’ve had many nights where tequila seemed like the answer to all my problems and many mornings when I realized I’d been wrong. I feel at least partly responsible for Bellamy, so leaving her to whatever demons are working their way through her mind right now while I go get cozy in bed feels wrong.

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