Pursing my lips, I nod. “Okay, well, she’s the worst person I’ve never met, and I now hate her on your behalf.”
“What?” He blinks at me like my suggestion is completely unreasonable. “Why?”
“Solidarity,” I explain, though my answer should be obvious. “I’m big on forgiving but never forgetting. You fuck me over? You best believe I’ll hold on to that memory until I’m six feet under.”
Cameron’s brows climb toward his hairline. “You don’t even know her.”
“Don’t need to.” I huff, straightening. “She cheated on you, ergo, she’s dead to me. That’s how this works.”
“That’s not how anything works.”
“It’s howIwork.” I shrug without shame. “I hold grudges like some people collect stamps. It’s a hobby at this point.”
He studies me, his brow creased and his head canted slightly, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.” I lean forward conspiratorially. “There was a girl during my freshman year of college who borrowed my favorite sweater and returned it with a stain. I still think about it. Her name comes up in conversation, and I’m like, ‘Oh yeah, Emily. The Sweater Ruiner.’ And don’t even get me started on Alec the Ungrateful Bastard from high school. I was a nice neighbor and drove him to school, and he had the nerve to call my parents and tell them I should have my license revoked.”
Cameron lets a low chuckle loose. “That seems exhausting.”
“It’s very freeing. I know exactly where I stand with everyone.” I spear another brussels sprout. “So yeah, your ex? Officially on my shit list. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s there.”
“I don’t know whether I should thank you or tell you how completely unreasonable and unnecessary that is,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“There’s no changing my mind. Cheaters are the absolute worst kind of people. If you’re not happy, just leave, you know? Use your words like a goddamn adult. And then when they get caught, because they always get caught, it’s all ‘it just happened’ or ‘you weren’t giving me what I needed.’ Like that’s supposed to make it okay? No. Absolutely not.”
It isn’t until I’m done ranting that I realize I’m gesturing wildly with my fork and bring it back down to the table.
Cameron is staring at me wearing an expression between amusement and alarm, the low lighting casting shadows over his face.
“Sorry,” I mutter, patting the fork where it rests on the table. “Cheaters piss me off. Maya’s ex cheated on her. Said it happened by accident. I’m sorry, but what? How does your dick accidentally slither out of your pants and into someone’s va?—”
“Everything to your liking?” our server interrupts, face bright red.
I shoot him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, then turn to Cam, waiting for his seal of approval, too.
He wipes the corner of his mouth with the satin napkin, an extremely demure move for someone the size of a bear, then dips his chin. “Great. Thanks.”
As the server walks away, Cameron restarts the conversation. “You don’t embarrass easily, do you?”
“If there’s something to be embarrassed about.” I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “But a comment about a rogue dick is pretty low on the list of things people have overheard coming from my mouth.”
He shakes his head in stunned wonderment, then squares his shoulders, like he’s prepping for a fight. “Now tell me why you dropped out of law school.”
It’s not a question, but a demand. And while my Elle Woods days aren’t my favorite dinner conversation topic, fair is fair.
“I hated it,” I admit, voice tauter than a bowstring. “Genuinely hated every second of it. Woke up in the morning with this pit in my stomach, went to class, took notes, came home and felt… empty.”
Cameron stays quiet, his expression so neutral it’s impossible to get a read on him. He’s probably thinking that I should have just stuck it out. Who makes it through three years of law school and then quits?
“I’m not even sure why I went in the first place.” I laugh, the sound hollow. “But it’s what you do when you’re accepted and your whole family’s waiting for you to do something important with your life.”
“What changed?”
“I started stress-baking.” I smile at the memory. “Like, full breakdowns at two in the morning, flour everywhere, making elaborate cakes I had no business attempting. My roommate thought I’d lost it, but for the first time, I felt like me. Like I wasn’t performing for anyone.”
His usually intense expression softens. “And you just knew?”
“Not right away. Took me almost two years to admit to myself that I was miserable. Another semester to work up the nerve to tell my parents.” I drag my fork through the balsamic glaze on my plate. “But I realized I couldn’t keep pretending to be someone I wasn’t just to make others happy. Life’s too short.”
