Chapters (39)
- Cover
- Dedication
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“They know what they’re getting into,” he says, his voice rising. “And who are you to say they’re not just as into hookups as I am? You can’t shame girls for liking sex just because you don’t.”
His words feel like a slap in the face. I can feel the impact of them, red on my cheek.
We arrive at my house and he pulls the truck off the road and parks, but neither of us makes a move to get out. He takes a breath and lowers his voice back into a whisper. “And they’re not stupid. They know what they’re signing up for. Besides, I—”
“They know you don’t like them? That you’re just going to ditch them? How could they possibly know?”
“I tell them! I tell them all that I don’t want anything serious.”
I don’t know why I’m pressing him. It’s like I’m picking at a scab. “But why?”
“Because I’m already in love with someone!” His breath is ragged, like he’s just run a marathon. He brings a hand up to his hair, pulling on the ends of it so it’s sticking up wildly.
I feel stomach-punched at his words, like all the breath has been knocked out of me. How could he not tell me he was in love with someone? I thought we told each other everything. That’s what best friends do. We’re here for each other’s weird shit. We handle it.
I guess I’m not as good at reading him as I’ve always thought.
“Which one?” I ask, my voice soft.
“What?” He seems dazed and he’s blinking at me like he’s just noticed I’m there.
“Which girl?” I ask. “Who are you in love with?”
He scoffs, a short breathy sound that gets caught in the back of his throat. “It doesn’t matter.” All of the energy seems drained out of him.
“No, it does matter,” I say. “I’ve always helped you with girls, haven’t I?”
He laughs a little, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. “I didn’t mean to tell you this when you were drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.” I feel a little light-headed, but I haven’t been drinking wine now for a few hours. And this conversation has certainly sobered me up. “Have you told her?”
“What?” he asks, lifting his head out of his hands.
“Have you told her you love her?”