I’ve seen him flirt with a few girls in the halls, too, a reality-packed reminder that our daily convos don’t make us an item. I tell myself I don’t care—going on a date with someone else was supposed to solidify that—but it’s still a pinch to the heart whenever I see them. Will leaned back against a locker, flaunting his panty-dropper smile while his girl of the week giggles.
He told me during one of our 3:00 a.m. talks that his flirting doesn’t actually translate to sex and he’s just bored, but a part of me wonders if he’s trying to distract himself. Perhaps lining up candidates to replace Callie, whom he is definitely not sleeping with anymore. Zoey said Callie’s practically growing spiderwebs down there.
I scoff, thinking back to fourteen-year-old Kass looking up sad quotes on the internet and sharing them on social media.
One in particular comes to mind.
I thought I was special until I realized you talk to everybody like that.
William Martins summed up in one sentence, folks.
Shambling toward the table, I squeeze my phone and pray Will is going to hold up his end of the bargain. My awful date’s name is Simon: he’s good-looking, sure, but so full of himself I’ve wanted to bash my head against the table since he opened his mouth.
He hasn’t once asked me a question about myself or shown interest in who I am. Pretty sure I could be an axe murderer and he wouldn’t care as long as I listen to him talk.
As I’m closing in on him from behind, I see You’ve just matched with Caitlin flash onto his phone screen. Tinder? Seriously? Like this date wasn’t enough of a disaster already.
“Hey, sorry it took so long.” I take my seat.
“No problem, sexy. You want to get out of here?” He packs his phone into his back pocket.
Ew.
“Yeah. I’m exhausted, and I have to get up early tomorrow. Can you take me home?” I am never letting a guy pick me up at my house ever again. If I’d shown up with my car, I could’ve left, and believe me, I would’ve.
As though I’ve just offered him to fuck me right there on the table, he smirks. “Absolutely, babe.”
I curse his inability to take a hint.
The waitress is fast to make us pay.
Correction: make me pay.
Because he forgot his wallet at home.
Never. Dating. Again.
My phone goes off the second we exit the restaurant.
Will.
He’s right on time, yet a minute too late. The waitress was quicker than expected. I send the call to voicemail and shove my phone into my pocket, telling myself I’ll explain later. The entire drive, Simon tries to grab my thigh, make eye contact with me, ask me forward, sexual-based questions. I barely reply, my legs flush against the car door. I look desperate to get away from him. How does he not see that?
Or is it that he doesn’t care?
Endless minutes later, he drops me off at my house.
“Thanks.” I don’t spare him a look, hurrying out of the car.
He gets out, too.
Shit.
My phone won’t stop buzzing in my pocket, but I ignore it. Must be Morgan wanting to know all about my date. Simon walks me to my door at a painfully slow pace. His body language suggests he doesn’t want to part ways.
“Thanks for tonight. Goodbye.” I fumble with my keys, but before I can unlock the door, he grabs my arm, tugging me to his chest.
“What’s the rush?” He inches closer, allowing me to feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. I shiver in disgust. It’s not that he looks bad. More that he’s so rotten on the inside it completely pulverizes any trace of his beauty.