“The perfects?” I ask.

“What people call us.” His face falls. “See you at seven.”

Chapter Three

Ambrose

She’s really pretty.

Like the kind of pretty that has me almost uncomfortable during family dinner that I’m almost embarrassed about it. I feel like shit too, because I know that while I’m angry, I’m reacting to her in a weirdly physical way—it feels wrong. She came with a trash bag.

A trash bag.

I really am an asshole.

She put on some makeup.

Her hair has soft waves touching past her shoulders in a near-perfect fit, kissing them more like it. The black Prada dress has material wrapped around her right shoulder; the rest is strapless, leather, and she looks like a goddess.

Her eyes are wide as she stares down at the table at all the food as it gets served to us. Protein heavy for me, vegan for Mom, and both for Dad.

One of our maids pours some red wine into everyone’s glasses, half for the underagers.

And so, the awkward small talk begins while I try not to look at her.

And try not to lust like some awkward loser while she takes a sip of her water and stares at the roll in front of her.

Her hands shake when she grabs it, and slowly, effortlessly, she puts butter on it, and I wonder when the last time any of the girls in my school ever put butter on bread—purposefully.

I smile at her and hope it doesn’t look mocking.

My dad starts talking about work, Mom gets her second glass of wine, and we eat in somewhat weird silence as they ask Belle questions about her life before she went into the system.

I am truly not prepared to hear her story and almost want to tune it out when she starts talking about her mom’s death years ago.

A single mom.

A never-present dad.

And then I look around the table and wonder if I really haven’t been a total shit when it comes to my life just because I hate faking it for the media.

I sigh, my appetite suddenly gone.

“You should eat more,” Dad says. “Don’t you have that big scrimmage against Capital next week?”

“Yeah.” I painfully chew the steak on my plate and then take a sip of wine to wash it down. “Should be a rough one.”

“What do you play?” Belle asks as if she’s interested, and I can even tell in her tone she kind of is.

“Lacrosse,” I say.

“Captain,” Mom adds. “Of the entire team.”

“I’m not surprised.” Belle reaches for another roll, then pulls her hand back like she’s not allowed to eat, and something in my chest cracks in half as I scoot the plate closer to her and nod.

Tears shimmer in her eyes, and I hate myself all over again for having a shit attitude and not being the nicest to her at first because I was all up in my own head, not hers.