Despite my vow to hold him at arm’s length, I can’t pretend I’m not flattered by his attention any more than I can pretend I’m not wildly attracted to him. Every cell in my body is begging to touch him, to taste his lips, to bury my face in his neck long enough to identify that scent once and for all. But almost as quickly as I acknowledge that startling truth, my giddiness is replaced by something else entirely: guilt.
I’ve been so desperate to paint Jack as the bad guy that I’ve managed to rationalize away all my lies and misbehavior, but that heartfelt speech just held up a mirror, and I do not like what I see. I’ve taken a man who’s treated me with nothing but kindness and respect, who’s opened up to me in good faith, and what have I done in return? Plotted against him, scoffed at his decency, toyed with his feelings, and abused his trust. Trust that clearly isn’t freely given.
Gah! Could I have picked a worse time for an attack of conscience? I should feel triumphant. I should be elated. Jack just said it himself: I’m messing with his head. I’m driving him crazy. After all the times and ways Brawler has gotten under my skin, I’ve finally given him a taste of his own medicine. I’ve beaten him at his own game! I should be taking a victory lap around this cavernous living room.
But all I feel is shame.
No matter what I used to believe of Jack, I now know that he’s more than his work, more than some petty website. He’s a real person with bruises and battle scars and a beating heart—a heart I came dangerously close to exploiting for my own gain.
Who exactly is the bad guy here?
The realization is a kick-ball-change to the gut. I let my eyes roam over his face, registering the earnestness of his expression and the sincerity in his eyes, and I suddenly know with deep certainty: I am not writing this story. I think I’ve known it for a while. I may have known it all along.
I let out a shallow, shaking breath, desperate to stabilize my heart, which feels simultaneously like it’s being squeezed and about to swell right out of my chest. At the same time, I feel instantly lighter, the weight of my deception melting away—and taking what’s left of my resistance with it.
We’re already sitting so close that our knees are touching, but that microscopic point of contact doesn’t feel like nearly enough anymore. I reach over and rest my hand on his denim-clad thigh before drawing my gaze up and looking him dead in the eye. I don’t want there to be a shred of doubt in his mind that I’m telling him the truth. “Jack, I’m not seeing anyone else.”
Those few words are all it takes for his hand to land on mine, his fingers wrapping around my palm and squeezing with gentle pressure. It’s as though I can feel his whole body relax through the flex of his hand.
“The night I needed a rain check was because I was going to a Celine Dion concert with some girlfriends. I didn’t share it with you because it’s the kind of thing that guys love making fun of us for, and I wasn’t about to hand you live ammunition.” His lips start to twitch and I raise a finger. “And before you open your mouth, do not speak a word against Queen Celine.”
He clamps down on his smile. “I would never.”
I side-eye him skeptically as I ponder how to address his other concerns—namely, my erratic behavior—without exposing my duplicity in the process. If I’m not going to write the story, there’s really no reason to come clean, right? Frankly, there isn’t even anything to come clean about. Sure, I may be letting myself off on a technicality, but I think this lie falls under the “for his own good” category. And technically, it’s not even a lie. It’s more like . . . a sin of omission. A justifiable half-truth, if you will. A victimless crime!
Alright, fine, I’m chickening out. I’m being a gutless, yellow coward. Right on cue, “The Great Pretender” starts streaming in the background, and I could howl at the irony. Even Spotify is calling me out.
But I can’t help it. I can’t let him hate me.
I clear my throat. “As for the texting and my general . . . elusiveness, I’m sorry if my behavior’s been confusing.” He tries to break in but I won’t let him. “No, you’ve been up-front about your intentions from the beginning, and you shouldn’t have to wonder about mine. And I . . . I’m . . .”
I trail off, losing my nerve, but it’s like I can hear Gran whispering in my ear, prodding me forward with her invisible hand: Keep going, Cass. Say the scary part out loud.
I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure how to explain myself except to say that you’ve caught me by surprise. I . . . well, I didn’t expect to like you this much.” It’s the understatement of a lifetime, but it’s also the naked truth—and it’s such a relief to finally admit it. “The truth is, I’ve met plenty of men who seem great at first, but I always seem to wind up disappointed. So if I feel a little distant, it’s because I know better than to get attached too quickly. Especially to a guy who appears a little too good to be true.” I nudge him with my shoulder, feeling so exposed and vulnerable I could die. “A girl’s got to guard her heart around a guy like you.”
I don’t think I realized the reality of it until this moment, that I’ve been holding myself back for reasons beyond Betty and this story—namely, that I’m scared shitless.
The thing is, men like Jack are dangerous. He’s the Prince Charming you dream about when you’re little, the one you’re sure doesn’t actually exist, who’s so full of appealing traits that you’d stack them together like a living, breathing paper doll if you could. He’s literally tall, dark, and handsome; smart and successful; both interesting and interested. He’s generous but modest, never flaunting his wealth or connections. He’s been patient and gentlemanly, even with the near-Amish restrictions I’ve placed upon us. He’s the type of man who acknowledges waitstaff by name, then looks them in the eye to thank them; who stocks your favorite wine even after you’ve blown him off for a week. He willingly met my family on our second date, for crying out loud. He’s practically perfect in every way, as Mary Poppins would say. You could fall in love with a guy like Jack before you even know what’s hit you.
He’s the kind of man who’d hold your hair back when you’re sick. Gran’s words echo in my ears and my heart nearly stops, awareness knocking the wind out of me:
I have real feelings for Jack. I may even be falling for Jack.
I think I’m gonna be sick right now. My stomach is seizing and my palms are slick with sweat, which I belatedly realize he must know since he has yet to let go of my hand. Frankly, the way he’s looking at me is enough to give me a hot flash.
He is lit from within. His smile is so dazzling that I briefly wonder if I’ve just confessed my feelings aloud before realizing that he must be able to see it in my eyes. He reaches up to cup the back of my neck, drawing me closer until we’re breathing the same air. His thumb strokes a featherlight path along my jawline and my nerve endings detonate like a row of fireworks. We’re a tinderbox ready to explode, and I’m holding a lit match.
And it’s in that moment—our faces an inch apart, our breath gone shallow—that we both notice the same thing at the same time.