Page 11 of The Problem with Perfect

“But really, I’m not…” I shake my head. “I’m not the girl who blurts out weird things or lies or tries to be anything she’s not. I’m just me. I’ve always been just me.” I take another big sip. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Rusty sighs. “It’s not a problem to be you, Bellamy.”

I snort, the warmth of the liquor beginning to slither its way through my system and making me feel a little more loose. “It is when I’d rather be Stace.”

“You don’t want to be Stace.”

“They’reengaged,” I cry out, striding across the room and angrily setting my glass down on the counter. “Engaged! I mean, really, he probably barely knows her. I didn’t even know he was dating someone and now he’s engaged!?”

The striding feels good, so I turn and storm across the space in the opposite direction.

“After everything we’ve been through, he’s just going to act like I’m some girl he knew in high school, like we’re not…”

My voice fades and I slow to a stop, my emotions bubbling up again as I burst into tears.

“I feel like an idiot. I slept with him, and he comes back less than a year later with a fiancée? I thought we meant something to each other, but I was clearly very wrong.”

When I look at Rusty, he looks angry, but I don’t have the mental capacity to try to understand him when I feel so emotionally stretched thin. I drop down onto the sofa, suddenly feeling all-consumingly tired.

Lying takes a lot out of a person.

Apparently, so does crying hysterically.

I wipe my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, willing myself to stop the theatrics…but the whiskey is making me too honest.

“Maybe the sex was horrible and he couldn’t wait to find someone better,” I blubber.

Suddenly, Rusty’s face is in my line of sight, hovering over me where I’m in repose.

“Why don’t we call it a night, huh?” he says, bracing an arm on the back of the couch. “Abby’s room is upstairs, nice and clean. Let’s get you up there so you can sleep some of this off.”

I mull it over for a minute, eventually deciding he’s right. Pulling myself up off the couch, I wobble slightly, the liquor in my bloodstream suddenly surging to the forefront of my focus and highlighting just how drunk I am from downing nearly a glass and a half of whiskey in a few seconds. When I trip going up the stairs and need Rusty’s help, any remaining thoughts about Rusty or Connor fly out the window, replaced by my sudden desire to curl up in a ball and go to sleep.

Rusty shows me to Abby’s room, and my eyes lock on myself in the mirror above her antique dresser.

“The heater’s been out for a few weeks, so I’m gonna get you another blanket.”

Rusty disappears and I continue staring at my reflection, my shaky vision taking in my red eyes and running mascara. I never look like this kind of mess. I’m always put together, physically and emotionally, which is why looking at myself right now feels so startling.

For the first time in my life, I don’t recognize who I see.

chapterfour

Rusty

This is the last thing I thought would be happening tonight.

After the absurdity of what transpired at the bar, I thought I’d come home and get a good night of sleep. I didn’t want to think about Bellamy, or Connor, or this wild lie that has now roped me into something I want no part of.

I came home, watched the last inning of the A’s game, then climbed into bed—not that I fell into a dreamless sleep or anything. Instead, I lay awake for quite a while, staring at my ceiling, unable to shut off my mind.

Surprisingly, there was a part of me wondering if maybe offering to help out a little bit with this Connor thing wasn’t too bad of an idea. The guy seems like a prick, and I love nothing more than making assholes eat their words.

I mean, he’s back for the summer, right? Then he’s off to…somewhere else, I’m assuming. I could be a stand-in boyfriend for Bellamy. A dinner here, a bonfire there. Doesn’t sound too terrible.

Until I consider the celibacy aspect. I wouldn’t be able to take Bellamy Mitchell, Cedar Point’s favorite daughter, out to dinner and then still go home with someone else.

Then, when I finallydidfall into a fitful sleep, she woke me in the wee hours, standing a mess at my door, and it only highlighted just how little I actually want to be involved in this drama. It’s not my style toget involved. I normally just try to keep to myself. It makes life a whole lot easier, and the last thing I need is some weird lie like this complicating anything.

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