She plucks the lemon out of her water and sucks the rind. “Sure.” Her fingers plop it back in the glass.

“I’m not his bitch—I don’t know why you’d assume I was.”

“Okay. You’re not his bitch.” Another sarcastic roll of her blue eyes.

“Can we please stop calling me his bitch?”

“Yup. Whatever you say, Abe.”

Now, I might not know jack shit about women or relationships, but I know this for a fact: it’s never a good sign when a girl starts agreeing with everything you say.

Never.

Basically, I’m fucked.

The problem is, Skylar isn’t my girlfriend, or my friend. The problem is I like her—but because we’re not in a relationship yet, she’s going to walk out that front door and never speak to me again, and she has no obligation to hear me out.

“I do nice shit for people, okay? Why is that an issue?” As the words leave my lips, I know they’re a crock of shit for the simple fact that I’ve been lying to her for weeks. About who I am and who it was talking to her, and how I feel about her. How Jack feels about her.

Skylar’s right eyebrow raises. “Do you seriously expect me to answer that question?”

“I’m a nice fucking guy, okay?” I wouldn’t say I’m mad, but I’m getting there. She’s not listening or hearing me out. “Since when is that a crime?”

“You are such a nice guy.” She’s patronizing me.

But I am. I’d give the shirt off my back to someone who needed it.

I do so much shit for people, it’s borderline stupid. I do shit for people when I don’t have the time, or the money, or the inclination—but I do it anyway. Last semester I spent every day for an entire week straight studying with Taylor Bronson for the LSAT. Two weeks ago, I drove thirty-six miles out of town to help Lyle Decker change his flat tire because he’d never done it himself before, and he doesn’t have AAA. Yesterday I lent Peter Fletcher fifty bucks to buy a textbook. (I’ll never see that money again.)

“Are you nice, or are you a pushover?”

Skylar is savage when she’s pissed.

“What the—”

“Sorry, but that’s what it sounds like to me. You might think you’re being nice, but you’re enabling people.”

“I’m not enabling anyone—I’m being a good friend.”

“And what ‘nice’ things are they doing for you in return?” She uses air quotes around the word nice. “Friendships go both ways.”

“It’s different for guys.”

Why am I defending myself?

Because you know she’s right. The guys on the team take advantage of me. But I’m from the Midwest, raised to be Christian and give without expecting anything in return—the true definition of selfless.

So the fact that she’s giving me shit about helping people? It’s beginning to chap my ass.

“Can we stick to the topic at hand here?”

“Oh good—let’s keep talking about what a big liar you are.”

Shit.

I walked right into that one.

Skylar is right, though. She’s absofuckinglutely right. “Look, I’m sorry you got caught up in this whole thing—”

“You mean you’re sorry you got caught.”

I have no reply to that, and Skylar goes on.

“Abe, you and I both know I’m not dating you now that you’ve lied to me.”

I do know that, but it’s not going to stop me from trying.

I might be a damn liar, but I’m not a quitter.

She just doesn’t realize that yet.

“Is there any way I can change your mind?” I stare straight at her, unflinching, until she’s forced to break eye contact and look away. Her pretty, delicate fingers sweep a stray lock of hair away from her face, teeth biting down into her bottom lip as her head gives a little shake.

No.

“Do you want to keep talking about this?”

Another shake of the head.

No.

“Do you want to stay and eat or should I pay the bill?”

She pauses, thinking. “We’ll split it.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I have no choice but to concede. “If that’s the way you want it, Skylar.”

“It is.”

Nothing has ever felt so final, and nothing has ever felt so terrible.

I hate myself right now, hate what I’ve done—to her and for JB.

“For what it’s worth, I…” It sounds like I’m choking on my words, throat constricting. “I think you’re pretty fucking perfect.”

Her lips part.

“No one is perfect, Abe. I think you just proved that.” Though barely audible, her words are blunt, and they hit me right in their intended target: my chest.

My heart.

“What do you mean?”

Her pink mouth curves, her body twisting in her seat so she can remove her purse from the chair.

She puts down some cash then stands, pulling the long leather strap over her shoulder. “I thought you were perfect, too, until about ten minutes ago. Too bad you went and ruined it with the truth.”

Her exit is dramatic, punctuated when she flips a sheet of long brown hair over her shoulder and stomps out, purse swinging.

The perverted, male part of me has eyes that latch onto her tight ass, admiring it as it sashays away, one bold stride after the next, until she’s out of my peripheral.

Seconds tick by.

Minutes pass, and I’m getting my change from the waitress when Skylar returns, chin up, shoulders pinned back, head held high.

Performance ruined.

“I need a ride.”

Me: Look. I know I’m the last person you want to hear from…

Skylar: That is correct.

Skylar: Save your apologies—I didn’t want them in the car, and I don’t want them now.

Me: I’m not texting to apologize; I’m texting you to ask if we can start over.

Skylar: haha.

Skylar: No

Me: Skylar, please. I told Jack to piss off, removed the app from my phone, and want nothing more to do with it.

Skylar: The app isn’t the point here. The point here is that you lied. I know nothing about you, Abe. Everything you told me was about JB.

Me: Then let me get to know you—please.

Skylar: I said no. Don’t make me block you from my phone, too.

Me: I’m sorry. I know I fucked up.

Skylar: Yup.

Me: There’s no way I can make it up to you so we can start over…none at all?

Skylar: Hard pass.

Me: All right, then I guess…

Me: Goodbye?

I stare at my phone, at the blue bubble from my last text, willing her to reply.

She doesn’t.

I had the last word, and it was Goodbye, and she doesn’t bother with the courtesy of a response back.

I feel sick.

And guilty. And like a complete, fucking douchebag.

How did I end up as the bad guy in all this?

I can’t concentrate on my meet, where there are thousands of wrestling fans in the stands. The auditorium is loud, thrumming with energy, none of which is coming from me.

Instead of warming up like I’m supposed to, I’m staring off into the dark recesses of Iowa’s stadium when a giant hand clamps down on my shoulder. It’s mammoth, and it’s attached to someone even larger. Someone larger than life.