Page 54 of The Most Perfect Wrong

I groan in frustration. The real question I should be asking myself is:What am I going to do about this mess I’ve created?I’m at a loss. Ever since the Christmas party, I’ve been so in my head. Brad and I haven’t stopped fighting, and Casey’s words about him being so nice because he’s cheating again echo in mymind every single day. The worst part is, if I just looked, I’m sure I could find evidence. But I’m scared to look—scared for it to be true. What would I even do if I found it? Try to break it off again? I know how that goes—how he goes.God, I don’t think I can do this anymore.

I grab my phone.

“Shit.”

Three missed calls and multiple texts from Brad. I stare at them, too drained to even read what he’s said.I’m so tired of fighting with him.There’s also a text from Ryan. My pulse quickens as I tap his name, holding my breath. There are two texts, the first one sent about thirty minutes after he stopped knocking on the door.

Ryan:Tomorrow, we need to check the terms of the lease before the next property meeting. I’ll handle it if you still want to visit the co-working spaces in the afternoon.

Ryan:I wish you’d at least let me explain. Then you could decide if you really hated me.

I sigh. Things are going to be so awkward tomorrow. I suddenly feel as if I’m being suffocated, the air too thick to breathe. I need to get out—now.I throw on some leggings and a tank top, and grab my book. Maybe the lobby has a vibey place with a fireplace that I can cozy up to and read for a bit. That usually helps clear my mind.

* * * * * ?* * * * *

I step onto the shiny marble floor from the elevator. The lobby’s still buzzing with noise, music and people, even though it’s close to midnight. I decide to take a lap around the main floor, scope out a spot for my reading. I walk toward the main bar—it has a vibe, but too loud for reading. It’s not overly crowded, beinga weeknight, but there are still a handful of people scattered throughout.

One of them… is Ryan.

I freeze. He’s sitting alone at the bar, hands cupped around a glass, his eyes glassy and distant. He looks miserable.

But damn, he also looks hot as hell. He’s wearing a T-shirt with his hair a little messy on top, like he’s run his hand through it a few times. The fabric of his shirt stretches against his biceps, and for a second, I forget why I’m even mad.

Ryan picks up his glass and takes a sip, his eyes finding mine as he sets it down. His expression stays neutral, unreadable. And now I have a choice to make. I could turn around and deal with this tomorrow, push it off for another day, or I could face the mess I’ve created—let him explain.God, when did I become such a chickenshit?

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, steeling myself as I walk toward him. His eyes follow me every step of the way.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask softly.

“Why don’t you tell me? You seem to know everything.” His tone is flat, and it’s clear from his glassy eyes and the way he holds his drink that he’s had more than a few.

“I didn’t come over here to fight with you, Ryan.” I slide into the chair next to him, even though it's obvious I’m not exactly welcome.

He scoffs. “Sure you didn’t.” He takes another sip.

The bartender comes over, and I order a shot of tequila. Because holy shit, I need one right now. He pours it, and I throw it back, biting into the lime as the burn slides down my throat.

I slam the glass down, trying not to cringe. “Can I get another one?” I’m going to need a buzz to get through this.

Ryan raises an eyebrow, his voice edged with bitterness. “Am Ithathard to be around?”

“You have no idea,” I say, tipping the second shot back, then meeting his gaze. “But not in the way you think.”

He laughs, low and bitter. “So… what are you here for then?”

“I didn’t know you’d be down here. I came to read… but then I saw you.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, finally turning his head to look at me.

I shake my head. “Nope. You?”

“Same.” He turns back to his drink.

I watch as Ryan stares down at his glass, swirling it like he’s searching for answers in the amber liquid. He looks… tired. Not the kind of tired you get from work, but something deeper.

He leans back, his eyes leaving the glass long enough to meet mine. “So, why’d you come over here if you were just going to read? Did you come to torture me some more?”

I scowl. “No… I don’t want to torture you.”

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