Page 34 of So Wrong It's Right

He does this sweeping arm motion, and then rakes his hand through his hair.

I smile brightly. Earnestly. I will not let him see what he’s done to me. I am made of titanium. “I’m using the paperclips you got me.”

They are spread out over the table, and I’ve been busy with the hot glue gun and paper hearts. And so much fucking glitter. “You told me to take down the stars. I did. You told me to use these paperclips. I am.”

“Stella,” he pauses, doing some sort of Zen thing while he pinches the bridge of his nose. “We made a deal.”

“This relationship isn’t working for me, and I think we should break up.” I add a freaking feather to the paperclip. It’s like a Michael’s Craft Store blew up in here.

“What?” he’s almost yelling, so he comes closer and lowers his voice. Because we can’t show emotion. It’s not allowed or something. “Why do you want to break up? I promise what happened last night won’t happen again.”

I think Ihatehim.

“You are damn right it won’t happen again. But unlike you, I am mature enough to handle what happened last night.”

Veins are visibly throbbing in his temples. “I’m handling it just fine.”

I snort. “Are you?” I wave the glue gun around. “I don’t think you are. I think you freaked out. There is no way you can carry this pretend relationship off. You’re going to make me the laughingstock of this town. And if it’s going to happen anyway, then I’d rather just get it over with now.”

“I’m not going to embarrass you.”

“No? You’re not a good liar. You don’t want to be around me. When you are, you don’t like yourself. You’re a terrible fake boyfriend and when your penis made contact with my girl garden, you freaked out—”

“I’m a terrible boyfriend?”

“Yes!” I yell. I must have squeezed the trigger because my finger burns, and I drop the glue gun. “Shit!”

He’s got my hand in his, and we’re at the sink before I know what happened. I try to yank away, but he’s running my hand under cold water.

“Just stop,” he says. “I want to make sure you’re not badly burned.”

“I’m fine.” His grip is strong, so I fume on the inside but stand still. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Why am I a terrible boyfriend?” he asks so quietly I’m not sure I didn’t make it up.

“Nobody will believe that you are into me, Christopher. You couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with me after we had sex.”

“That’s not true.”

“You bolted. So afraid of what might happen next you barely said goodbye. And what did you think would happen? Because you know I don’t want a relationship with you or anyone right now. We might have been able to pull off at least being friends, but you don’t even want that from me.”

There’s this ache in my chest. It’s like a black hole, pulling all the things people say about me, all the things I say about myself, into it. Expanding and squeezing. I can’t bear to be his pretend girlfriend. Not when I know how he actually feels about me. It’s not his fault. He didn’t ask for this. But Devon was right that night at the bar. About me.

I’m not a great prize. I like to think I am. That I’m pretty and strong and fun and sexy in all the right places. But sometimes, I realize I’m not really fun—I’m just not serious. And I’m not strong—I’m just as fake as this relationship.

He turns the water off and blots my hand with a towel. “Why don’t you have a dog?”

Strange segue much?

“Huh?”

He’s examining my finger. Taking more care than it warrants. “You’re so good with animals. You work so hard placing the unwanted ones in the perfect home. Badgering the town into becoming forever homes when we get a stray. Why don’t you have one?”

I swallow. “Nash doesn’t want pets in the apartment.”

Which isn’t strictly true. I mean he says no, but Nash now has two in his apartment across the hall. All I would really have to do is tell Tru I want one.

“You should get a dog. I think you have a lot to offer one.”

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