Page 64 of Personal Foul

Dylan kissed me.

That’s the only thought in my otherwise empty head as I make my way out of his building and to my car.

Dylan kissed me.

And it wasn’t an act for anyone else. It was a real kiss. For me. Well, and for him too, obviously. Because not only did he not bother to hide the effects of the kiss, he ground said effects into me while he had me pinned against the door.

Honestly, a few more minutes of that and I wouldn’t have been able to muster up the self-control to leave. I’ll be sure not to tell him that, though. Ever.

Unless I decide I want him to be able to use that knowledge against me …

Right now, though, I need a minute to clear my head. Or a day, anyway. Not to mention the homework I need to finish for tomorrow.

Tomorrow …

I’ll be back here tomorrow. Without my car. And while I could always get an Uber or something if I really needed to, I didn’t do that last time.

Actually, worst-case scenario, I could call Isabelle to come pick me up. Of course, if it comes to that, we’d be staging that breakup as of then.

Though would it really be staged at that point? Is our relationship still more fake than real?

I could still argue that after the first kiss. While it wasn’t strictly necessary in my opinion, one could make the argument that it helped sell us as a couple to our friends, but that our relationship was only for public consumption.

This kiss destroys that argument completely.

On the upside, I won’t be lying to Isabelle anymore about my “relationship” with Dylan …

That actually makes me breathe a sigh of relief, like I just managed to drop a heavy weight from my back. The lies have been piling up so much lately that having even one less makes a huge difference. At least to me.

Driving home gives me a few minutes to process how I feel about Dylan. And kissing Dylan.

On the surface, I liked that kiss. A lot. He’s an amazing kisser, and I want more of that.

But should I?

It’s Dylan, after all. The guy who stood by and watched as his friends tormented me in high school. They guy who purposefully tormented me for the last several weeks here.

He did apologize, though …

And he’s offered to help me in whatever way he can, up to and including living with him if I need to.

“I hope I won’t need to,” I whisper to myself.

That just seems like a recipe for disaster. If I were living with him because I couldn’t afford a place on my own, the power balance would be entirely in his favor. What would I do if we end up hating living together? Where would I go? Because in that scenario, I’d have already burned my bridges for Isabelle to be my roommate. I couldn’t go back to her.

Which I guess leaves crashing with Hope—and since she didn’t offer that already, that would only be a temporary solution in case of emergency—or going back home.

Going home might not be the worst thing. I could be there for Mom more. I hope her friends haven’t abandoned her, because she needs a support system nearby. Grandma and Grandpa are great, and I’m sure they’ve got her back, but they live in Illinois, so it’s not like they can be there for her in person. Plus, they’re getting old, and traveling is harder for them these days.

While part of me is still hesitant and suspicious of Dylan—what if this is all some huge setup so he can humiliate me even more later?—the bigger part of me thinks his apology and attempts to make amends are likely sincere. And that part also wants to enjoy more kissing.

He said we could have dinner at his place tomorrow and then study. Does “study” mean something different in this context, though? Is that a euphemism for something else?

With a snort, I park in front of my apartment and shake my head. I don’t think so. Not with Dylan. He’s the kind of guy to just come out and say he wants sex if that’s what he wants. Also, the studying suggestion was before the impromptu make out session at his door, so …

Pulling out my phone, I decide I better clarify.

Me: I do actually need to study tomorrow.

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