That makes no sense, either. “So you’re spying on him?” Or does he just want to look at girls without having his picture posted online?

“No. I’m…” He lets out a deep breath. Runs a hand over his short, cropped hair, fingers digging into the back of his neck. Rubbing. “It’s not spying. It’s more complicated than that.”

It’s complicated.

God I hate that term.

“Is this some kind of joke to the two of you? Do you sit around the locker room making fun of the girls he goes on dates with?”

“No, it’s not like that, either.”

He’s doing a horrible job explaining the situation—whatever it is—but now I’m invested in the story and need more details. I need to know what’s going on.

“Can you be more clear, Abe? All you’re doing is confusing me.”

“All right, but don’t get mad.”

He said that already. “You said that already.”

“I know—I just don’t want you to walk out on me.”

What if I don’t have a choice? What if this whole fantastic date was for nothing? What if I go home and cry the rest of the night because what he’s about to tell me is going to crush me?

What if, what if, what if…

“Then let’s hope what you’re about to say isn’t that terrible.”

Another dreadful silence.

“Abe?”

“Skylar, I really like you.”

That’s never a good sign.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I focus on the three buttons of his polo shirt, the bright color complimenting his complexion and black hair.

“The thing with the app—it isn’t a joke, but it’s not about me. It’s about JB.”

I nod slowly. “Uh huh.” I wish he’d just spit it out already.

“He might come off as a total…”

“Prick?”

“Right. We’ll go with that.” Abe laughs nervously. “He might come off as a total prick, but he’s actually insecure. And when his girlfriend broke up with a him a few months ago, he was a complete fucking mess—pardon my language.”

A total mess.

“Then another guy on the team told him the best way to get over a girl is to get under another one.”

“Uh huh…” The pieces still aren’t clicking together as he struggles to place them for me.

“Do you get what I’m trying to tell you?”

A laugh escapes my lips. “Um, no. Not even a little.”

“Jack has no confidence. He’s bad at grammar, hates making conversation, has no attention span.”

“O-kay…”

Abe is watching me, expecting an aha moment any second now, but I have news for him: there isn’t one coming. He’s gonna have to spell it out for me.

“Abe, just tell me wha—”

He’s finally impatient enough to interrupt. “I go on the app and pretend to be him.”

Ohhhhh. Oh!

“Oh.”

I have no idea what else to say; everything finally makes sense—sort of. JB being emotionally distant on our dates (which I thought was normal, considering our age and his maturity level). JB not wanting to discuss anything personal because he knew nothing about me and probably never read back through the messages to find out what makes me tick. JB not being invested because it wasn’t him putting in those long hours of conversation with me.

JB wasn’t the one making me laugh.

JB wasn’t the one giving me butterflies in my stomach.

JB wasn’t the one giving me false hope.

JB wasn’t the one causing me to daydream through my classes.

None of that was JB.

It was Abe.

Abe Davis is a liar.

Abe

Every heartbeat that passes is fucking torture. I wish Skylar would say something. Anything. I wouldn’t even care if she called me an asshole. Or a sonofabitch, or a jerk—anything to put me out of my misery and break this miserable silence.

I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I take them off the table and rub my palms up and down my thighs, the denim soaking up the sweat accumulating on them with every passing moment.

She hates me; she must.

I can see it in her blue eyes.

They went from warm to cold in an instant, brows bent in that instinctive way.

She’s hurt.

“Skylar, I didn’t mean—”

“For any of this to happen? Could you be any more cliché right now?” She takes the napkin off her lap and sets it next to her fork and knife. “What happens next? Are you going to say you didn’t mean for any of it to happen? Save it—I’ve heard those lines before, but they were better scripted in the movies.”

Clearly this is not the time for me to point out that she’s being a tad melodramatic.

“That’s not what I was about to say.” Okay—maybe it was, but I’m not dumb enough to say it now. “JB and I have been doing this for months and you’re the only one I swiped on who was ever worth his time.”

Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

“Oh, you’ve been doing this for months, eh?” She laughs, head actually tipping back, the sound coming out of her throat an odd combination of ironic and sardonic. It’s slightly maniacal, if I’m being honest. “And I’m the only one worth his time. I’m so flattered!”

You know those scenes in the movies where the guy finally realizes he’s in deep shit because the woman sounds like she’s lost her damn mind, repeating things back to him and saying irrational shit?

I never thought it would happen to me, but I’m living that classic moment, except this is my fucking reality, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

Molecular biology homework? That I can do. Swap out a car battery? Sure. Write a fake letter of recommendation for a friend? No problem.

This?

No clue.

“You’re still on the app.” She states it as a fact. “You’re sitting here with me, and you’re still swiping.”

“But none of those dates are for me.”

Skylar isn’t impressed with my answer. “I’ve never met such a yes man.”

Whoa.

Wow.

Okay. Not cool. “I’m not a yes man.”

Skylar rolls her eyes. “Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not.” Why am I arguing with her? She’s clearly itching for a fight—and she couldn’t be more wrong.

She yawns, feigning boredom. “It’s one of two things: you’re a yes man, or you sincerely enjoy doing it. Which one is it? Pick one.” Her tone is hard; she expects me to answer.

“Neither.”

Skylar makes a buzzer sound in the back of her throat. “Wrong. Try again.”

What the fuck…

“Would you listen?”

“It’s one or the other, Honest Abe. You either love swiping or you’re Jack’s bitch. What other explanation is there?” She looks satisfied with herself, like a dog that’s just eaten a whole cake before its owner entered the room. Or a girl who’s just backed a man into a corner knowing she’s won the argument.

“I don’t enjoy it.”