Page 37 of Personal Foul

“Oh my god, what are you doing?” I demand, hating how petulant I sound. This is what he does to me, though. Turns me into a petulant, demanding toddler. Seriously, my niece isn’t even this demanding and pouty sounding when she doesn’t get her way. Next I’m going to start stomping my feet. I already want to, but I’m holding back the urge.

Still no response from him. Then his phone lights up. He reads whatever alert flashes on the screen, then sets his phone down, leaning over to pat my spot again. “Might as well get comfortable, babe. Andrew and Isabelle are at yours, and they’d prefer privacy. We can watch another movie. Or, if you’d prefer, move things to the bedroom …” He waggles his eyebrows in a comically suggestive way that makes me laugh even though I’d rather not.

“You’re the worst, do you know that?”

He shrugs, unperturbed. “You’ve said that a time or two, I think. But in this case, I’m not the one at fault. That would be your roommate.”

“Ugh. Fine.” I flop back onto the couch and wave an arm at the TV. “Another film, sir.”

“Ooh, I think I like it when you call me sir. We might have to add that to the requirements of your position.”

“You really are the worst.”

All that does is make him grin, like being the worst is his goal in life and he’s just won a gold medal.

It probably is his goal in life. Why else would he go out of his way to act like he has to me?

Why oh why did I have to get tangled up with him? Why couldn’t my friend have decided that, I dunno, Poli-Sci majors were the bee’s knees and insisted we hang out with them? Why football players? And whythisgroup of football players?

Because if I hadn’t been forced into proximity with Dylan, I wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

Unfortunately, here I am. The longer I stay here, the more tangled everything gets and the more stuck I become.

And I can’t see any way out.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dylan

Partway throughGladiator, I glance over and notice that Charity’s asleep. She finally managed to scoot over to her original spot, where she curled up using the arm rest as a pillow. She has her hands tucked under her cheek, and her mouth is soft, her lips barely parted.

She’s adorable, actually. Soft and pliant in a way that’s entirely lacking when she’s awake.

For a split second, I consider scooping her up and carrying her to bed—in the guest room. I’m not a creeper.

But she’d probably wake up and freak the fuck out and whack me in the face. And then I’d drop her. And then she’d hate me even more.

I’d really like for her to not hate me.

I turn off the movie and stand, moving quietly to the linen closet where I pull out an extra blanket—a quilt my grandma made me when I was a kid. Returning to the living room, I spread it over her, tucking it around her shoulders.

Straightening, I look her over again, my hands propped on my hips. “What am I gonna do with you?” I whisper.

She’s so feisty and angry—and who can blame her?

My friend group put her through a lot of shit in high school. She hasn’t directly referenced it—her comment about my friends thinking her name fit her just fine being the closest thing—but we both know that we both know.

I couldn’t do anything to stop the bullying. I made some effort to get them to stop, but when pressed for a reason, I couldn’t give one. At least not one convincing enough to stop them.

I guess I didn’t realize how deeply it affected her, though. I mean, I knew it had to suck. But she’s carried that anger with her for years now and obviously hasn’t gotten over it.

When she showed up with her friend sniffing after Andrew a few weeks ago, I recognized her immediately and thought it would be fun to get to know her now and find out how she’s fared since high school. But she made it extremely clear that, though she recognized me, she wished she didn’t.

There’s nothing I can do about the past, though. I don’t believe in regrets. What’s the point? There are no time machines, no do-overs. There’s only now. And the future.

What do I want in the future, though, where Charity is concerned?

Well, I know what I want—I want more of this. What we had tonight. But I’m not sure what I want really matters.

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