Page 28 of On The Edge

Sofia’s riot act she read me last night repeats through my head. The one and only person I confided in over this stupid, bullshit charade. Take the experience for what it is. Use it to your advantage. Use it as a fuck you to our dad. To prove him wrong. Use it as a means to an end.

And hell, if I happen to veer with Maddix, then I veer. No harm, no foul, right? Not that I’ll be telling Sofia that. The last thing I need is my sister on my case about how I need to respect women more. I respect the hell out of women . . . in more ways than one.

If we’re going to fake it, is it so bad if we enjoy it while we do?

But by Maddix’s reaction earlier? I’m not sure what she’d think about that.

I don’t know much about Maddix Hart other than what I found on her social media and the limited interaction we’ve had, but here’s what I have perceived: she’s by the book. She likes boxes and lines and for the coloring to be inside of them and not outside.

Her social media posts are curated to show the tidiness of her life and not the messiness. And messiness is where true character is. It’s where people are made and validated. It’s where they become their true selves.

There were pictures of Michael. Michael who loves American football and cold brews but who never looked overly enthusiastic about being in any picture with Madds. His smile was there but his eyes weren’t.

I know that look. I’ve given that look. And then I promptly extricated myself from the situation so I no longer had it.

In addition to Michael, her social media had pictures of sunsets, days on the lake, and balloons with blurry people in the background—all from about thirty feet away—but nothing in your face. Nothing goofy and raw and unscripted. Life at a distance instead of living in the moment.

Cautious. Choreographed. Uninspired.

Was it Michael who held her back or does she do it to herself?

Either way, the guy’s a prick for doing that to her or letting her do that to herself. Good riddance, even if he’s a nice guy.

Because the woman has a backbone. It came out in glimpses each time I pushed one of her buttons, but not for long enough.

She’s a mess of contradictions, and I’m curious how this will play out.

Will she get frustrated with me? She’s structure and I’m chaos.

Will she want to fight all the time? She’s black and white and I’m most definitely all shades of gray.

Will she prevent me from letting loose? She’s rules and I’m anarchy.

Will she struggle with the lifestyle I lead? She’s perfectly folded clothes in a dresser drawer, and I’m an open suitcase with everything thrown into it in complete disarray.

I study her from across the car. She’s watching the town of Amsterdam through the window as our driver navigates its streets. Her pale hair falls in the slightest of waves down her back. Her features are delicate—button nose, pouty lips, high cheekbones. Her frame is petite but muscular and surprisingly strong if the tensing on my lap on the plane was any indication.

I bet there’s a side to her that’s a little wild. A side I can get to cut loose. I refuse to spend these next weeks or even months with the ball-and-chain babysitter girlfriend and not get to have any fun.

I get this whole thing needs time to play out, but I refuse to be a monk during that time. A monk? Not. Fucking. Happening.

“I can feel you staring at me,” she says but doesn’t turn my way, her mouth opening in a yawn due to the time difference.

“And? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. It seems like that’s the least of the things I’d be doing to you to make your cheeks blush.”

Her sigh fills the car and weighs heavy before she turns to face me. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot.”

“We did? You helped me. That could be construed as the right foot, no?”

“So that’s why you picked me over the supermodels? Because I was nice and helped you?” she asks, sarcasm tingeing her voice. “Because that does wonders for my self-esteem.”

“Whatever inference you’re making otherwise is on you, Madds.” It’s not my job to stroke egos. Not in the least.

“Great. Perfect. Apparently, we got off on the right foot then.”

“Why are you mad?” I ask. “I picked you. Isn’t that enough? And now that I have, and now that I know a bit about you, I think we’re going to have a hell of a lot of fun sowing those wild oats of yours and getting you to let loose.”

“That’s not the purpose of me being here.”