Page 81 of The Problem with Perfect

All of those reasons are true, but what’s also true is if I say any of those things to Bellamy, she won’t let me let her go. So instead, I tell her the one thing I know will push her away.

“I’m just ready to be back out there again, you know? I miss being with someone more experienced, and I’m kind of done pretending to be something I’m not.”

I can see the pain as it cuts down her face, even though she tries to mask it.

Bellamy’s never been a poker player. It’s how I know this is the only way to end things between us, because I can see in her eyes that she has fallen for me, too.

I brace for her to burst into tears and leave, knowing I won’t be able to follow after her, but she raises her chin, and I watch as her eyes flicker over me, something in her expression shifting.

“You’re lying.”

I grit my teeth. “You can believe that if you want.”

“How long are you going to do this to yourself?”

I narrow my eyes. “Do what?”

“Be the martyr.”

My body freezes, surprise rolling through me like a wave. It’s a tidal wave that slams me into the ground and doesn’t want to let me back up to the surface.

“It’s not your fault your parents died, you know.”

My nostrils flare.

“You don’t have to keep sacrificing everything good in your life for the people around you as some kind of penance for what happened to them.”

“Stop.”

“And deny it all you want, but we are good together. We’re good for each other.”

“Bellamy, stop.”

“So are you going to sacrifice what you want again? Or are you going to decide it’s worth it to finally take something for yourself?”

“I do take something for myself,” I counter, glaring at her, my entire body strung tight.

This isn’t how this conversation is supposed to go. She’s supposed to accept my decision to end things and leave.

“Every night I’ve spent at a bar, searching for someone to lose myself in,” I continue, “that was for me.”

At first, I think it’s enough, think maybe I’ve convinced her—but Bellamy just shakes her head.

“That isn’t for you,” she says. “Didn’t you hear what you just said? You don’t lose yourself in the things that bring you joy and happiness and fulfillment. You find yourself. You find the best version of yourself.”

Bellamy stands, tears glossing her eyes again as she walks toward me.

“That’s how I feel when I’m with you, like I’m found in a way I couldn’t have understood before you, like I’m learning new ways to be the best version of me.”

Her hands come to my cheeks, framing my face, and it takes everything inside of me not to close my eyes and lean into the feel of her skin on mine.

“And maybe the way we started was messy and strange and imperfect,” she continues, “but aren’t you the one who told me perfect is overrated? Because it doesn’t leave room for anything real?” Bellamy presses her lips to my forehead, to my right temple and then my left before tilting my face up to look at her. “This is real,” she whispers. “I know it is, and so do you.”

She kisses me, and I’m lost in her.

No—I’m found in her.

That’s what Bellamy makes me feel.

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