We were at a stoplight now. The tension in the car felt like a living thing, pressing against every inch of me. I crossed my arms. “You’re just going to sit here, picking me apart, asking questions I have no interest in answering, and you have no real desire to hear? What’s the point? Because nothing good is going to come of it.”

“What’s the point?” he repeated. “I don’t know. Are you going to act like you don’t want to be here?”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“You’re still here, though.”

“Only because my uterus is trying to kill me.”

“You could’ve taken the bus.”

“Excuse me?”

“You could’ve asked Tiffany to drive you,” he continued. “You could’ve canceled altogether. But instead, you got on that bike, even though you were miserable, even though you didn’t want to, even though you knew there was a chance I’d see you.”

I opened my mouth, ready to fire something back—something clever, something cruel, something that would make him feel how furious I was⁠—

“You knew I’d stop.” Blake sighed, glancing at me. “So, what—you’re planning on suffering through a date while you feel like shit?”

I gritted my teeth. “I can handle it.”

“Yeah? And is Reese going to handle it when you start regretting this whole thing ten minutes in?”

“Regretting what, exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Forcing yourself to have fun with some guy who doesn’t even know you hate raw onions. Or that you always order Sprite at restaurants but never finish it. Or that⁠—”

“Don’t start,” I cut him off. “I don’t need to hear it.”

“How long do you think you’ll last?”

I exhaled slowly. “With what?”

“Pretending you like him.”

My throat went tight.

Blake hummed like he had already won.

But I wasn’t going to give him that.

I turned to face him, refusing to shy away from his intense gaze. “I do like him,” I said, my voice softer, but no less firm.

“No, you don’t.”

I pressed my lips together, looking away.

“Beverly.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know me.”

“I do know you.”

My fingers curled into fists. “Not anymore.”

Blake huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s funny, because I know you wear Tommy Girl during the week because it makes you feel fresh and put-together, but on weekends, you switch to Poison by Dior because it makes you feel dangerous.”

I scoffed, but he wasn’t done.