“Because I’m a selfish asshole, and you’re the kind of person who does this”—I throw my arms out wide to encompass the entire space—“for someone you’ve known for five months.” I know what those fridges cost, not to mention the logistics of purchasing them and getting them set up on the top level of the house without my realizing what was going on.

Jack drops his hands from my face and takes a step back. “Why do you continue to think the worst of yourself, Sadie?”

“It’s not thinking the worst if it’s true.” I know I sound like a petulant teenager, but I don’t care. My reaction to his generosity only serves as further proof of how terrible I am.

“No.” He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at me. “I’m not letting you do this. Tell me why you think you’re a selfish asshole.”

“You’ve lived with me for months; I would’ve thought you’d seen enough of it for yourself by now.” The overwhelming emotions—many of them of the happy and positive variety but also guilt and confusion and embarrassment—are starting to coalesce into one big emotion: anger. Anger is so much easier to deal with than all those other feelings tap-dancing around inside my heart. Rejection and self-doubt and inferiority and self-loathing.

Jack refuses to be cowed by the venom I’m dripping into my voice. “Give me one example.”

I mimic his pose, arms crossed defiantly over my chest. “I forced my friends to work for me for free for half the summer.”

“Your friends are grown adults who were happy to help you because they love you. Myself included.” A dart of something flashes through those green eyes on that last sentence. “Next.”

My breath hitches in my chest. I know he didn’t mean it like that, and I’m not backing down. “I moved into your house and took the whole place over without ever even asking you if it was okay.”

“Have you ever once heard me complain about that?”

“No, but that’s only because you’re a good person.”

“And you’re not?” He looks like he wants to throttle me, and honestly I don’t blame him.

“Obviously.”

Jack pushes his glasses up on his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “I have a real question for you, and I’d like a genuine answer.”

Shrugging, I hop onto the counter. This conversation is wearing me out and I’m about to fold. Also, it gives me a good excuse to not have to look at him.

“Why can’t you see the good in yourself, the good that we all see in you?”