Page 28 of Dead Pretty

When I repeat the whole conversation back in my head, it sounds awful.

And it wasn’t the first time that I was a bitch to him.

Sure, I can’t be friends with the guy. I can’t be friends with anyone. But there are better ways to handle things than the way I did.

I could have said, Sure, friends.

It wouldn’t have meant I had to actually do anything with him. It wouldn’t have meant we had to be besties and sit around and braid each other’s hair.

When he said friends, he probably meant in the acquaintance, friendly way.

I should have just said yes.

Then, I wouldn’t feel like such a dick, and I wouldn’t be obsessing about it right now.

I know I should just sort this out.

But I can’t go actively seek him out because that would be weird and probably give him the wrong message.

If I could accidentally run into him again, maybe I could say something then.

But that’s not looking likely at the moment. Not now that he’s avoiding me and now that whatever had us running into each other all the time has decided to stop.

I either shut the fuck up about it and move on. Or go knock on his door after work tonight and apologize for my terrible behavior.

I’ve got the rest of the afternoon to figure out what I want to do.

But right now, I’m going on my lunch break.

Instead of eating in the break room, I decide to go wild and go out to grab some food.

I’m heading out to the coffee shop I like to go to. They have the most amazing cinnamon-and-raisin bagels, and I have been craving one since I woke up this morning.

I’m still deciding whether to get takeout or stay in when I walk inside and see Jack sitting at one of the tables in the corner. His laptop opened in front of him.

And that for sure answers my question as to whether he’s been staying away from the library on purpose.

As if sensing me, he lifts his eyes from his screen and locks on to mine straightaway.

There’s a wariness to them that I haven’t seen before. And I’m the one who put it there.

Guilt lodges in my chest. I really hate the feeling.

It’s an emotion that’s been torturing me for the last few years.

I try to push the guilt away, but it’s not budging.

I guess this is my moment to decide what to do. The afternoon that I thought I had to figure it out has now become seconds.

And I am well aware that I’m standing stock-still in the entryway of the coffee shop, staring at Jack across the room.

I don’t know why I’m struggling with this so much.

Make a decision. Go over and apologize or don’t.

It’s that simple.

Only … it doesn’t feel that simple for some reason.