"I just..." She sighs, like this pains her, like she's being so brave bringing this up. Poor Maura still has to look out for her baby sis even at her own wedding. Boo-freaking-hoo. "I want to make sure you're okay with everything that's happening."
"What does that even mean? I'm fine. More than fine."
"Okay, but you do know you're not really his type, right?"
My stomach twists, skin tingling with discomfort. "W-what?"
"You're wonderful, Liz, don't get me wrong. But you're more ... the brainy best friend type. Not the girlfriend type. And definitely not the type guys like Dean fall for."
Something cold spreads through my chest, seeping into spaces I've been trying to protect. "He proposed to me."
"In front of everyone. Very publicly." She tilts her head, studying me. "Maybe he's just being nice? Maybe you're just too available? I'm not even sold on the boyfriend-girlfriend thing."
"That's not?—"
"I just don't want you to get hurt when he ends this and goes back to his normal type." She squeezes my arm. "You'll still be friends. That's what matters, right?"
Maura leaves, and I stand there staring at the most beautiful-looking pastries I've ever seen, my appetite gone.
You're not his type.
Just being nice.
You're just too available.
Maybe that's all this is, all it's ever been, all it can be. My best friend being chivalrous and considerate.
What if this morning was pity? Pity-sex? Is there even such a thing? What if I'm falling apart for someone who's just being kind? Or worse, because I really was too available?
My shoulders curl over my chest, muscles jumping under my skin. I'm really about to lose it, tears already pricking my eyes. Instead of embarrassing myself, I escape to the resort gardens, following the path that winds through hibiscus and palm trees toward the beach.
I make it maybe fifty feet before I hear footsteps behind me.
"Liz."
"I needed air."
"Liz, please. You're shutting me out, and I need to know why."
"I'm not?—"
His hand is on my shoulder, turning me to face him, and I can't avoid his eyes anymore. "Do you regret it? Because if you do, just say so. Don't shut me out."
"We should end this." The words tumble out too fast, too desperate, my last defense against the way looking at him hurts me. "The fake engagement. We should end it before?—"
"Before what?"
"Before someone gets hurt."
A muscle jumps in his cheek, and Dean scrubs a hand across his face. "Too late."
"What?"
"Too late, Liz. I'm already hurt."
Silence settles in and lingers, heavy and charged and impossible to navigate.
He's hurt. He just said he's hurt. But why? Is it the pretending? The lies on top of lies? It was his idea in the first place, but what if…?
