Page 70 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

Dominic looked like he might start choking. “You’d hate that.”

“Shows how much you know. I’ve got a major thing for older guys.”

“Since when?!”

“Since the first time I rewatchedTwilightas an adult and realized Charlie was the best part.” I ran my fingers through my hair, fluffed up the roots. “Plus, there’s something really attractive about big, burly men who look like they’d be really proficient at chopping wood, you know?”

“Pretty sure I’m bigger than him.”

“Not relevant. You’re not a contender for the future father of my children.”

“I… the futurewhat—” He cut off when I tugged my coat open and slipped it off. I didn’t need it—would make more of an entrance without it.

Rachel was right about the dress. I shouldn’t have doubted her for a second.

“Okay, I’m good to go. Can you unlock the door now, please?”

When the silence that followed stretched for a half minute too long, I stopped preening and made the fatal mistake of turning my head.

My heart dropped.

Pain—fresh and heart-achingly genuine—unfurled in his eyes as he looked me up and down. It was like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath and making me nauseous.

Even though it was bullshit.

There was no real reason for him to act like this. There was no real reason for him to be hurt, or to look at me like that, or beg me for a fucking kiss like he was convinced his life depended on it.

He’d rejectedme.

He’d leftme.

I’d been in love with him foryears. Truly, deeply, unfathomably,miserablyin love.

And it was shit like this—the tortured glances, the little acts of jealousy—that had convinced a small, pathetically naive and hopeful part of me that maybe those feelings weren’t entirely one-sided.

He’d known. He’d figured it out and turned me into the butt of the fucking joke.

Imagine if Rachel hadn’t told me, and I’d shown up to that game wearing his hoodie. Imagine if I’d spent the entire hour and a half trembling with nervous excitement and disbelief, thinking he’d chosenme.

Imagine, then, that the ref would’ve blown the final whistle, the crowd would’ve hollered and cheered as the players ran to their partners to celebrate the long-awaited moment. Phones would’ve been out, pointed at us from every angle.

And he’d have sprinted right past me, climbed the bleachers, and kissed Harper.

Imagine how much they’d have laughed.

Imagine how muchhe’dhave laughed.

So fuck him. I wasn’t doing this again.

“What?” I asked, hating how tight my chest felt. “You have something else you wanna say?”

He glanced away with a half blink, his throat working as he unlocked the doors. “Text me when you’re done and want a ride home. I’ll keep my ringer on.”

And had I not been so busy trying to fight back tears, maybe the bitter, vindictive little snake in my head wouldn’t have won, and I wouldn’t have struck so hard. “Don’t bother. I’m not planning on going home tonight. Not with you, anyway.”

I slipped out of the car, slammed the door shut, and left.

22