Page 23 of The Problem with Perfect

Swallowing thickly, I step back, releasing her as quickly as I can.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say again, then I stride quickly to my Blazer, hopping in and pulling out of the gravel lot as fast as I can manage without kicking up rocks and dust.

I have this feeling skittering beneath my skin. I can’t figure out what it is, but it makes me uncomfortable. It makes every emotion feel bigger, sharper, last longer. It’s easy to see that somehow, Bellamy is responsible for it, that her existence is enough to cause…whatever this is. But I can’t risk allowing this tiny spark of attraction a chance to grow into anything else.

I have to snuff it out before it catches.

chapterseven

Bellamy

I lie flat on the dock, staring up at the stars, enjoying the cool night breeze as it wafts lightly around my body, tickling me gently as it grazes the fine hairs on my arms.

For as long as I can remember, this spot on the dock, staring up into the heavens, is where I’ve come to clear my mind. It doesn’t matter if there are other people around, if it’s quiet or noisy, night or day, rain or sun. There should be a little crime scene outline spray-painted on the ground right where I’m lying with how frequently my body is in this exact spot, in this exact position: flat on my back, eyes up, palms to the wood of the dock beneath me.

Something about feeling the planks against my hands is grounding and always brings me a sense of calm, which is why I’m here. I desperately need some calm.

My mind is a jumble after my dinner with Rusty, and I keep replaying our conversation on a loop—or rather, every interaction since the bonfire, from the drive out of Cedar Point on the anniversary of his parents’ death to his reaction when I said he was my boyfriend in front of Connor to the night I got drunk and fell asleep in his sister’s old room.

It’s hard to believe all of that has happened in just a few days, hard to believe I went from seeing Rusty around town to going out to dinner with him and planning a fake beginning so we can spend evenmoretime together convincing Connor we’re dating. I worry I’m creating a bigger mess than I’m trying to clean up, but that’s lying for you. Once you start, it’s hard to stop. The hole just gets bigger and bigger until you feel swallowed up and can’t see where you came from and don’t know how to climb your way out.

My fingernails scrape lightly against the wood beneath me, and I close my eyes for a minute, trying to think through how tomorrow night will go. The real test. The first time Rusty and I will really be on display.

Though I guess our dinner tonight was a bit like our coming out party. I saw more than a few curious glances from people I know from around town, surely wondering what the hell Rusty and I are doing out together. My best guess is people are dismissing it outright, assuming it’s some sort of familial closeness since Rusty has always been somewhat a part of our family, especially after his parents died.

I can’t imagine the type of impact that would have on someone. I’m very close with my parents, but I’m also ridiculously close with my twin brother. Bishop and I have been inseparable since birth. It’s hard to explain the closeness you feel with someone when you shared a womb. Even the knowledge that I might exist on this earth without him someday fills me with so much emotion I can’t allow myself to dwell on the thought.

A soft tone fills the air, and I smile, knowing instinctively it’s Bishop on the other line. This happens all the time. I’ll be thinking about him and he’ll call, or vice versa. It’s our twintuition.

Grabbing my phone from where it rests next to my head, I hit connect, then speakerphone, my smile growing when I hear his voice.

“I hate it here.”

I giggle. “No you don’t. You’re just mad you couldn’t go to Europe with Eliza.”

Bishop groans. “Well, fine. I’m mad I’m not in Europe with Eliza.”

“There, see? Doesn’t it feel better when you actually say how you feel instead of bottling it up?”

“No. I’d rather say I hate it here than admit my girlfriend went on a two-month trip without me.”

I hum, feeling the ripple of unease in his words and knowing I shouldn’t have brought up his original summer plans.

“How’s camp?”

Bishop makes a noise that sounds precisely like a shoulder shrug, and I have to stifle my laugh. My brother has been talking nonstop about this baseball camp since his coach first told him about it last year. He’s been there for a little over a week and texts me pictures constantly, so I don’t buy thismehvibe he’s trying to give off.

“Oh, come on. There’s no way you’re not having a total blast. Five weeks of camp to prep for the combine? I’m almost jealous.”

At that, he laughs. “Bullshit. You hate baseball.”

“But I love you, and I love imagining you getting ready to go after your dream.”

He sighs. “It’s pretty great, alright?”

I laugh. “See? What’s been your favorite part so far?”

Bishop launches into a story about meeting a player from the Dodgers, a name I recognize as someone whose posters he had on his wall when we were younger. Apparently this guy is friends with his coach and will be at the camp intermittently to help out. He complimented Bishop’s performance today. He says it like it was like God herself reaching out and patting him on the back, and I love it for him.

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