Or does she not even care anymore?

Why did we work so hard to have this image when she just abandons her son? Why did I spend years in agony? Why did I let my parents cover everything up when nothing ever even mattered?

As if on cue, Quinn walks by me—of course, he’d be here.

He holds my stare.

I hold his.

I still remember that moment even though I try like hell to forget it. The way it felt, the manipulation from Tessa, and the jealousy between us.

The betrayal.

The confessions.

He licks his lips and looks away from me.

People would lose their shit if they knew the truth about our fallout, why Tessa had to leave, and what she put us through. That woman deserves a special spot in Hell, that’s for sure.

Then again, she is at community college despite the payouts from both of our families, so I find some triumph in the fact that her Ivy League school refused her after my dad let them know what she was into, what she did, what sins she committed and forced us to partake in. If it was just the sex, I’d be like whatever, but it was so much more, so much more less “perfect” than anyone could possibly imagine.

I can’t think about it anymore.

It ruins my drunken mood. Quinn approaches me. I want to punch him in the dick; instead, I just sidestep him and then get ready for a confrontation when his jaw drops.

He’s looking at the stairway.

The party kind of stops a bit which is weird.

I look where he’s looking.

And I nearly drop the bottle in my hand.

Instead, I grip it, clench my teeth, and tell myself to breathe.

MB walks down the stairs in what could only be described as half a dress. It’s like this tight white number that wraps around her neck, exposes her sides down to her ass, and has a tiny slit up her thigh. I do not remember giving her that dress; I don’t remember my own address right now either, though, so… maybe that’s on me.

She’s wearing a pair of expensive black and white Jordans that weirdly don’t look bad with the hot as fuck dress.

And she has makeup on.

Actual makeup.

It’s just enough to bring out her pout, her high cheekbones, her eyes, just her everything.

Her dark hair’s pulled up into a high ponytail like she did it in a hurry, and pieces are already falling out, kissing her shoulders. She looks like an upgraded Greek goddess.

“Damn,” Quinn says under his breath.

I almost shove him.

Even though I agree.

She smiles and holds her head high, a huge change from the last few months with her looking away.

Well, apparently, Cinderella came out to play.

And two can easily play this game of charades.

We are The Perfects, after all, right?

I stroll up to her and offer her my arm.