Page 24 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

But it still…Christ. It still bothered me.

Was he going to go to our boss and tell him that I’d been ignoring him? I was past caring about Brendon’s personal opinion of me. But I wasn’t ready for him to ruin my reputation at work.

No one had even known we were dating.

They’d take his words at face value, wouldn’t they?

There was no reason to believe he was vindictive.

And yet…I couldn’t help but think that all of this was my fault.

Because I’d known our relationship wasn’t healthy, yet I’d let him twist me up over and over just so I could feel gratitude on the days he decided to help me untangle the knots he’d tied.

I was never enough for him.

Never what he wanted.

Always begging for scraps of attention, perpetually left empty.

Unbidden, a more pleasant thought rose to the surface.

Namely, Alex James.

His laugh, his massive tanned hands, his gorgeous eyes and the way they’d crinkled at the corners. His dimples, so full of mischief. And the way he’d commanded my attention like it was his right to do so.

Alexhadn’t left me feeling empty.

He’d paid attention to me.

Maybe too much attention.

And as we pulled into the driveway of the picturesque farmhouse that I’d grown up inside, I realized how desperately, horribly,awfullyI’d needed that.

My childhood home was a frankly massive three-story country monstrosity. It had white siding, ivy climbing up the walls, and a window for each of the bedrooms. I could vividly remember summers here, chasing Joe and Lacey around the yard with the hose, water casting fragmented rainbows wherever it sprayed. Marcille would watch from the front porch swing, and Mom would ply us with sandwiches and reminders not to track mud in the house come lunch time.

“You sure you don’t need help?” Joe confirmed.

“It’s a backpack, Joe. Pretty sure I can handle it.” I rolled my eyes.

“Sure.” Joe grunted, and I smiled at him. “You dating anyone new?” he asked.

My smile fell immediately.

Well, that was random.

“No.” Slinking out of the car, I catalogued each change.

The lawn was more manicured than I remembered—Joe’s handiwork. Dad’s shed, full of tools and the like, had been repainted a cheerful red. There were scribbles in chalk on the driveway, probably Mavis’s doing. And a different set of curtains hung inside the window that’d been mine growing up, facing across the street to Roderick’s house. I popped my back with a groan, shaking off the funk I was in as I headed toward the trunk to retrieve my backpack.

This felt surreal.

I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.

Already, I could feel my walls coming up, the need to perform rising to the surface.

“If you’re looking—” Joe recited, almost like this conversation was scripted, and he’d been put up to it.

“I’m not.”

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