Page 23 of The Fake Date Agreement

Now, more than ever, Ihatethat about him. Maybe I just hate him.

“Get out,” I say quietly.

He steps around the table, and I do something so un-Tobie I don’t even recognize myself. I throw my glass at his head.

He ducks, cursing as the glass smashes against the wall.

I don’t see it shatter. My eyes are full of tears.

By the time I’ve wiped away my tears, I’m alone.

He left.

I turn back to the window overlooking the quad. I’m still standing there as Marc walks away from my dorm and a blonde-haired woman approaches him.

I can’t see her face, but the bright platinum is familiar.

She was outside my dorm.

He actually told her to meet him right here.

The sound of laughter and footsteps in the hallway propels me into action.

I quickly clean up the water and broken glass and return to my room, closing the door behind me and locking it. And I stand there, staring at nothing as tears roll down my cheeks.

I can’t bring myself to leave this room.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

But I have to. Because if Marc was sleeping with another girl, and he was sleeping with me at the same time, how can I know if he was using a condom with her? I’m on birth control, and we used condoms most of the time, but we didn’t always.

I need to get myself checked out.

My gaze lands on the Post-it Note on my desk. I’m wearing my glasses, so I should be able to read Javier’s number on it from here, yet everything is blurry.

Brushing the tears from my cheeks, I unplug my fully charged cell phone and pick up the Post-it pad, dialing the number on it.

It rings twice. “Yeah?”

My fingers tighten around my phone. “I want revenge. I want it to be public, and I want him on his knees.”

Is it weird that I can tell Javier is smiling when he says, “We’ll be over at six.”

Chapter 7

Javier

“I’m not droppingout of the team, Mom.”

“You’ll be a better doctor than you will a hockey player, Javier,” she says.

No, Mom. I won’t.

She’s lived in America for over twenty years, but her accent has never faded. Unlike Vanessa and me, she was born in Brazil, moved to Boston, and met my dad, another first-generation Brazilian student, in college.

The first language I learned was Portuguese. When I started school, I spoke it less and less, my accent fading until I had to root around for so many forgotten words. Mom and Dad signed me up for lessons so I wouldn’t lose any more of my heritage.

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