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.”
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.