Page 151 of The Perfect Wrong

Not the other way around.

That’s all Evie’s ever done, and it’s happened so many times I’m numb to most feelings.

But I can’t be the one for Delia to pine after, to wish over, to star in her what-ifs until she’s so bitter she thinks she’s just settling when she finds a normal guy—a man with a heart that cares and knows how to show it.

Staring at my own reflection in the locker room mirror, I resist the urge to smash it into a thousand bits. I always get this dull shine in my eyes when I’ve finally come to my senses—and right now my gaze reminds me of fogged glass.

What happens next will not be pretty.

Not the fun thing, but the right thing.

I have to break it off clean.

No matter how much it shreds my soul.

“Do it fast, you fuck monkey,” I mutter to myself, hating how my voice sounds so scorched. “Quick and clean and gentle. As gentle as you can, before you fuck her up too bad.”

I’m deadly serious as I dress, chugging water to chase back the rock in my throat.

I know what I need to do.

But first, one last talk.

* * *

It’sa balmy evening by the time I’m back in my truck.

I head for the mansion, expecting to find Delia sprawled out by the pool again, where it seems like she always sits and reflects whenever the sun is coming up or down.

I’ve never seen her actually swimming.

All I can think about is dragging her into the cool turquoise water and stamping my lips across her body, drowning us in one last fit of ecstasy.

That might make the heartbreak easier.

I’m not stupid, though.

I know it won’t.

After I drive through the gate and park in the garage furthest from the house, I head inside. Every footstep feels like walking through quicksand.

But I don’t find Delia waiting like a fragile thing I can’t stand breaking.

Ma looks up at me from a lounge chair as I step into the pool area, a sharpness in her eyes.

“Christopher?” she calls, pulling down her oversized shades.

Great fucking timing.

She looks like hell, laid out in the evening sun, her pale body wrapped in a makeshift blanket of layered towels.

There’s a drink dangling from her hand. I don’t even need to smell it to know it’s loaded with poison.

I also know she’s under strict orders to follow the latest detox protocol she’ll ignore.

Awesome.

All she needs is a cabana boy in a speedo, and her queen bitch act will be complete.

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