Page 71 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

“What is?”

“Calling me darling.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“I hate that line,” I admit, unphased by the casual and quick shifts of

topics between us. It’s just so damn easy to talk to Percy, easier than

it’s ever been to talk to anyone else. “I could practice the guitar every

day for three years—doesn’t mean I’ll be perfect at it.”

“No, but you’ll be better than you were.”

“Progress, then. Not perfection.”

He nods silently at first, holding the rim of his mug to his pouting

bottom lip and never taking a drink of it. “I guess that does make

more sense.”

“Besides, perfect is overrated.”

He leans forward, elbows on his kneecaps. “Alright, explain that one

to me.”

“What, that perfection is overrated? It is. Even I can admit that; the

girl who had to be perfect.”

“You’re not as bad as you may think,” he says. “Homecoming queen.

Prom queen. Weren’t you valedictorian, as well?”

“Hardly. I think I got the title because no one else wanted it.”

“But still. You’ve succeeded in those things by being perfect and

striving for perfection. How is that a negative?”

I laugh to myself, feeling the half-crescent moon taunt me overhead

with the billions of stars being his backup in my humility. “Because

look where it got me. No boyfriend, mountains of debt, and an

unwillingness to be social in even the most basic of forms.”

“Granted, I don’t like being social either, Leah.”

“But you live in town. You talk to people. I mean, how is being able to

sing on stage and bring the most vulnerable emotions out for

everyone to see, not being social?”

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