Page 65 of Personal Foul

Dylan: Me too. But we’ll save some time for more fun activities too.

Chuckling, I grab my bag and climb out of the car. When I get inside, Isabelle looks up from her spot on the couch where she’s surrounded by tissues. Her eyes are red, her cheeks streaked with tears.

She offers me a watery smile. “Did you have a nice time with Dylan?”

“Yes.” I drop my bag, move some tissues out of the way, and sit next to her. “But what happened? Why are you crying?”

Another watery smile that breaks down as more tears flow. “Andrew doesn’t want to see me anymore,” she wails.

“Oh, sweetie.” I pull her close, rubbing her back as she cries on my shoulder.

The story—such as it is—spills out of her between sobs and hiccups, and I hand her another handful of tissues when the ones in her hand are too wadded up to be useful. “He says he doesn’t want a relationship.” She sniffs, wiping her nose again. “And that I deserve better than him.”

Dick. I clear my throat, and as gently as possible say, “He’s probably right about that. Anyone who says you deserve better than them is giving you a warning. You deserve someone who thinks you’re amazing. Who you don’t have to chase down to convince to spend time with you.” I hold back the rest of the words threatening to spill out. I’ve been wanting to tell her for ages that she needs to back off Andrew. Find somewhere else to focus her attention. But Isabelle gets fixated on things, and no one can deter her once she’s decided something. And she’d decided she wanted Andrew Maloney. Nothing I said would’ve made a difference when she wasn’t in a place to hear me.

Now I can’t say it all because she feels bad enough. She doesn’t need me rubbing salt into the wound.

She nods, more tears leaking from her eyes, the picture of heartbroken misery. “I just want what you and Dylan have,” she whispers, her voice breaking on the last word.

“Oh, honey,” I murmur, pulling her in for another hug and ignoring the pang her words cause.

What am I supposed to say to that? I don’t want her to have what I have—at least not what it is so far. Blackmail, lies, and confusion is no basis for a relationship.

Then why do you think this can turn into something?A voice that sounds far too much like my big sister’s whispers in the back of my mind.

But do I? I mean, not really. I’m going along with it for self-preservation, right? The fact that kissing Dylan is a lot of fun is just a happy bonus. And what we do in private is just to give more depth to our public-facing ruse … right?

Sure. I’ll keep telling myself that.

Except the sad, lonely, desperate part of me really does want Dylan to want me for real. He wants to help me. The only thing stopping me from accepting it is my pride and my mistrust of his motivations.

“You’ll find someone great soon enough. Just maybe don’t go for guys who are used to droves of women fawning over them. They’re more likely to put you in this situation again.”

“You found Dylan, though,” she protests, pulling away from me, her brows pulled down.

I shrug. “I didn’t say it was impossible. And who knows how long things will last with Dylan? In a month or two, I might be sitting here doing this same thing, and you’ll be telling me I deserve better than an asshole like him.”

Her face crumples. “You think Andrew’s an asshole? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Well, I donow. Look at what he’s done to you! Of course he’s an asshole.”

“Yeah,” she hiccups. “He is. Look at what he’s done to me.” Sniffing, she mops her face with a tissue and loudly blows her nose. “Assholes don’t deserve to be cried over like this.” She brushes her hair back, unsticking it from the tears gluing stray strands to her skin.

“Good point.”

“We should go out. I need a distraction.”

“Oh, uh—”

“Please, Charity.” She grabs my hands, her face imploring. “Let’s get dressed up and go to a bar or a club or something. Do you know where the football players go, though? Because let’s not go there. Somewhere … intellectual. Are there intellectual bars?”

I have to stifle the laugh trying to bubble out of me. “Um, there are ones that offer trivia nights. Does that count?”

She waves a hand. “Close enough. I’m going to take a quick shower and wash my face so I don’t look like I’ve been bawling my eyes out. You find out who has a trivia night going on. Call Andrea and Kayla, too. Kayla knows lots of random stuff. She’ll be perfect.”

“Okay, but Iz, I’ve got homework tonight.”

“Right.” She stops just before turning down the hallway and faces me. “I do too.” Checking the time on her phone, she crumples up her face. “Dammit. Okay. Slight change of plans. Let’s do homework for an hour. Will that be enough? Then we’ll go to a bar. If we can find a trivia night, awesome. If not, who cares? We’ll just go out and have fun no matter what, okay?”

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