I scoffed. “Next?”
“Next scenario.”
We glared at one another, gazes burning as we stood our ground.
“Fine,” I gave in. “You didn’t know anything about me and weren’t interested in learning.”
“What?”
“A disinterested boyfriend,” I said. “Not a cheater but standoffish. It fits.”
“It does not.”
“David, it fits,” I snapped, frustrated that he was fighting this hard.
“You prefer the in-between moments in seasons, when spring’s still cold and winter days are bright with sunshine. The quilt on your bed was a project you finished with your grandma, made up of your favorite childhood clothes. On weekends, you don’t get out of bed until eleven, but spend the rest of the day feeling guilty, so you cram in a boatload of things on your to-do list. You binge the same show every fall. It’s calledThe 100. You skip the last season, though, because a character named Bellamy doesn’t get his due justice, and it makes you cry. And I’m fairly sure you have an anxiety disorder that results in excessive picking. You hide it concerningly well.”
My ears roared as if I were trapped behind a waterfall. Before I could resurface, he continued.
“You tell everyone you want to work in politics or the nonprofit sphere, but from the looks of your multiple sketchbooks, you want to create something new, not work in someone else’s old system,” he said. “But you lack natural talent and, for some reason, you won’t enlist your drive. When you get tired, you wink, one eye after the next, because you think it helps energize you. Your sisters treat you like the baby because you are, and you like coddling, but don’t enjoy the aftermath of them looking down on you. You can be a leader, but something about them makes you always defer. I can’t tellif you’re unable to trust your potential or if you believe they’re smarter than you. They’re not; you’re one of the smartest people I know. One of the most intriguing people I know. Your favorite color is orange.”
My head was spinning. I didn’t know whether to address the TV show, sketchbooks, picking, or favorite color.
“I’m not a disinterested boyfriend,” David said firmly. “Next.”
15
This man hada dossier about me. And here I was, drawing blanks on what he did when he wasn’t coming up with dares and catching a football.
“This was supposed to be a get to know each other meeting?” I whispered, the question more for me than him. Shame burned in my cheeks as I realized I was severely outmatched.
David watched me. It was the perfect time to gloat, and yet he remained silent. He didn’t shove the long list of facts he’d collected on my life and personality in my face when he had every right to do so.
“If you need a fake partner,” David said, voice slower and almost gentle. “I’m better than most. I know your family dynamics, understand your idiosyncrasies, and can anticipate your disapproval. The interaction would be seamless. Damage to psyche, minimal. The gossip mill would be bored with us in two seconds because I’m not fresh meat like Haven. They’ve already gotten a taste of me and have spat me out.”
“You still want to… do it?” My guilt chewed through my carotid arteries, set on seeing me bleed out. I had half a mind to give in. I’d gone on about us not knowing each other and him not caring, and now look at me, standing in front of a table he’d set with delicate details of my life.
“I’m willing,” he said. “Want is a whole other matter I didn’t plan on factoring in.”
He had the upper hand, stood on the high ground, and I couldn’t figure out how to switch things. What bothered me more was I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t rubbing this in my face. He wasn’t jumping at the chance to make me feel like a jerk for not being able to say half the amount of things he’d shared about me.
“It’s going to rain.” David’s gaze upturned, taking in the cloudy night sky. “What’s it going to be?”
“I… I’m willing to not to break up prematurely,” I said. “Now that you’ve expressed… interest in this relationship.”
He scoffed and a smile played on his lips. “Alright, let’s go.”
Instead of heading back to the cafe, David started in the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?” I jogged to catch up.
“My place is around the corner,” he said.
“Your place?” Another white blob of a thing in my map of his world. My stomach jumped in excitement to see something of his that was tangible, proof he existed outside of the bubble we warred in.
Rain started to trickle down when we neared the athletes’ row. The buildings here were newer, brighter, and cleaner, and iron plates engraved with donors’ names and dates paved their walk.
“Keep up,” he warned when I lingered at a gray fountain made of marble and home to an impressive football statue shooting out water from atop his helmet.
