Page 135 of The Breakup Artists

But this time he cuts me off. “She asked me to come over. I said no. Then the next day she called me, hysterically crying.”

I eye him suspiciously.

“Something to do with her parents—without going into detail, they suck. And she needed a friend. So that’s what I was—her friend,justher friend.”

My stomach sinks. Cassie was the girl with the messed-up parents and the affair he told me about? “And so?”

“And she tried to kiss me.”

There it is. “Did she succeed?”

He shakes his head. “I swear. I stopped it immediately. I left, and I haven’t talked to her since.”

I open my mouth and pause. “If that’s true, then why didn’t you tell me when it happened? You told me every detail of that day, including what you fed the twins for lunch, and yet somehow omitted Cassie’s tongue.”

He shakes his head like he’s asked himself the same question a hundred times. “Because I’m an idiot,” he says. “And because I like you—like, really like you.”

“Don’t even. This has nothing to do with you liking me and everything to do with you lying.”

“You’re right. What you said about me being in a bunch of short relationships is true. I got that in my head and was trying so hard not to screw it up that I screwed it up. It’s new to me... caring like this. And honestly, it scares the crap out of me.” He smiles sadly. “I haven’t slept in days. I haven’t gone surfing. Nothing. I’m a wreck. All I can think about is you.”

I purse my lips, not sure how to react. I’ve been furious because I thought he cheated on me, and finding out that isn’t true is disorienting.

“Look,” he says, sighing. “I totally get that I broke your trust.”

“You did.”

“But if you’ll let me, I want to earn it back,” he says.

I eye him. “You sound confident.”

“I am. I have to be. My sleep depends on it.” He pauses. “The thing is, I need you in my life, Valentine. And whether or not you want to hear it, youdomake me better. I actually like who I am when I’m with you.”

“‘Need’ is a strong word.”

“I know,” he says.

We look at each other for a long moment, and the way he stares at me is so hopeful that I can feel myself reacting to it, reflexively softening to the plea I see in his eyes.

“I thought about standing outside your window with a homemade sign,” he admits. “I even had the twins help me make it.”

“You did not,” I say, some of the ice gone from my voice.

“I really did. It saidVALENTINE SHARMA, PLEASE LET ME EXPLAINall in caps with a picture of a sad puppy underneath.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “You know that’s the most ridiculous thing ever, right?”

“Desperate times...” he says with a smile that cuts right to my core.

I shake my head at him, trying to look fierce but failing. “Don’t look at me like that.”

His grin only widens, and I swear I move a step closer without meaning to. “Like what?”

I wave my hand at him, practically grazing my fingertips on his chest, his very beautiful chest. “You know exactly what.”

“I can’t help it; you’re smiling,” he says like this is the moment he’s waited for his whole life.

But try as I might to grasp at it, I feel my remaining frustration evaporating in the warmth of the summer air.