Page 77 of The Problem with Perfect

“Last summer, we had a thing.”

My stomach twists and my jaw drops, shock ricocheting through my body.

“He was always at the resort, you know, because of his dad and everything, and he’d hang out at the bar and we’d talk for what felt like hours. We used to go up to Easy Street after my shifts and…” She trails off, her eyes closing, like she’s remembering something fondly. “It was amazing—the best sex I’ve ever had. Then when he left for college, he told me he just needed to focus on school until he graduated.”

I want to throw up. My hands are clenched and my jaw is tight and I feel like hurling my half-empty soda out into the woods, except I don’t want to litter.

“And then he came back engaged—like, what even is that? As if what happened meant nothing?”

I lean forward, elbows on knees, resting my face in my hands.

“Hey, are you alright?”

I look back at her, shaking my head. “I have something to tell you.”

She looks confused at first as I tell her about tutoring Connor last summer, but when I begin to describe my own experiences with him—how he’d come into Dock 7 and sit in my section, flirting almost relentlessly, all the things he told me about how good we were together and how we slept together before he left—Emily looks enraged.

I thought she’d be sad, maybe cry, but she looks like she wants to light something on fire.

“That fucking jerk,” she seethes, standing, her hands balled into fists. “He is such a…such a…”

“A little shit?” I offer.

“Yes.” She points at me. “He issucha little shit. I can’t believe he would pull something like that.”

She turns and storms off the porch, down the handful of steps and across the driveway. She stomps angrily into the trees at the edge of the property and disappears into the darkness.

I sit up, my eyes scanning for her. Then I hear a thwacking noise, and I can picture Emily out there, stick in hand, hitting a tree over and over again in anger. I giggle to myself, not because I think Emily’s reaction is funny, but because the entire situation is fucking ridiculous.

Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

I have never been so thankful to have had the rug pulled out from under me, to have had the wool removed from my eyes or whatever saying fits best. Honestly, I think all of them apply in some capacity. Connor reallyisa little shit, and nothing in this world feels better than knowing I learned the truth about who he actually is without having to absolutely ruin my life first.

Emily returns a few minutes later, looking far calmer, if not a bit sweatier, than when she first stormed into the woods. She plonks down on the couch next to me, puts her feet up on the railing, and downs the rest of her soda like it’s a beer-chugging competition.

“I want something with lots of alcohol,” she tells me. “You?”

I shake my head. “I’m mostly over my anger at Connor, but you go ahead. Get shit-faced. I’ll be here to take care of you.”

Her shoulders droop and she leans over, wrapping her arms around me.

“I wanted us to be better friends, but not the kind of friends who sleep with the same guy.”

At that, I bark out a laugh.

She pulls back and gives me a soft but sad smile then heads inside to grab something harder to drink. I’ve been hoping to create a deeper friendship with Emily as well, so it feels good knowing she’s on the same page.

We sit together for a long while as she gets progressively more tipsy and we both share stories about Connor and our lives in Cedar Point and everything in between. As strange as the night is, knowing we’ve both been treated so shitty by the same guy seems to really bring us together. It’s wonderful in the most unexpected way.

And I guess, for that and that alone, we can be thankful to Connor Pruitt.

* * *

When I pull up to Rusty’s at one in the morning, I’m thankful the rental car from earlier is no longer parked out front, meaning my brother is probably safely tucked away and asleep at mom and dad’s. I can’t believe I didn’t even notice it earlier, parked on the street. I wouldn’t have known who it belonged to, but maybe I would have thought twice about trying to pull up my skirt at Rusty’s front door.

It occurred to me to text him first before just showing up tonight, but the truth is that I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to tell me not to come by. My guess is confirmed when he answers the door, his eyes tired, and says almost exactly that.

“You don’t think your brother will notice you didn’t come home?” he asks as I step through his front door.

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