God, I'm an idiot. A certified, walking, talking, face-palming idiot.
"When you first told me about it last week, I thought you didn't ask me because..." She lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.
"Deep down, you knew no one would believe you. Not your teammates, not anyone. No one would've believed that someone like you could ever want someone like me."
The words hit like a slap across the face.
I actually step back, my chest stinging, this slow burn spreading under my skin.
"You think I was that guy? Some shallow asshole who only cared about what people thought? Who couldn't be with the girl he wanted because she didn't fit their so-called standards?"
She just shrugs one shoulder, like the answer doesn't matter. "You tell me."
I shake my head hard, throat tight. The words taste bitter as I force them out.
"I was stupid back then, I admit that. Immature- sure. Being the star player probably got in my head more than I want to admit. But not like that. I wasn't that guy, Caroline. I'm not that kind of guy."
For a second, I hold her stare, waiting.
Hoping she'll shake her head, call me an idiot for even asking.
God, don't let that be how you've always seen me.
I don't think I could stomach it.
"You said it yourself—high school was a shark tank. You either kept your image intact or gave people something to rip apart. And God forbid the king of the in-crowd got caught dating his fat, ugly best friend. That would've been social suicide, wouldn't it?"
Her words feel like they're flaying me alive, leaving me speechless.
"I think, this is why I'm having a difficult time letting you back in, trusting you again," she whispers, and it's somehow worse than if she screamed.
"What do you mean?"
"How am I supposed to believe you liked me back then, when you didn't have the guts to say it? And now—now that I finally look like I meet everyone's definition of your standard—you suddenly find the courage? Just like that?"
She snaps her fingers, and the sound ricochets in my chest.
"Your reputation has always been everything to you," she says, huffing out a breath, eyes glistening.
She tips her head back, staring at the ceiling like sheer force of will can keep the tears from falling, then drops her gaze to me again. "You always chose the girls who looked the part. The ones who matched what everyone thought was the Zach Westbrook standard."
Her arms fold tight across her chest, a shield she clearly needs. "The ones who made sense standing next to you. Just like...Taylor."
Her mouth twists into something caught between a smirk and a wince. "With your face, your popularity, it had to be believable, right? Had to look like a perfect picture." She lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but it's empty.
Then her eyes pin mine, steady and unblinking. "And I didn't. Not back then."
As she says it, I catch something in her eyes — insecurity, self-doubt. A ghost that's been living there for years, whispering that she'll never measure up. And maybe she still believes it, even now.
And I can't stop wondering if I'm the one who put that there.
If it started the day she overheard me run my mouth, calling her fat and not worth it.
If I was the one who carved that wound into her and then left it to fester, feeding it every damn day by pretending I wanted someone — anyone — but her.
Was I really that guy to her? That shallow? That obsessed with keeping some perfect image?
"And that's why I can't just believe you loved me all those years ago. I don't... know how to."
