Page 71 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

El árbol que crece torcido, nunca endereza – The tree that grows crooked will never straighten

Translation: You can’t undo the past, but you can start a new chapter. So, maybe it’s time to let go and move forward.

It’s official: I am the world’s biggest coward.

I had the perfect opening to tell Blondie I like her—the opportunity presented itself on a freaking silver platter—but I didn’t take it despite spending these past few weeks working up to that exact moment.

Each time we slept together since that night in Guadalajara, my determination to confess would only grow stronger, and that voice in my head would say, This is it.

This is the day I tell her. But then, lo and behold, every time without fail, I would shrivel up like an old ball sack.

I kept convincing myself that it just wasn’t the right time, that I’d get another chance. But last night in the library? That was the moment, I’m sure of it. And I completely fucked it.

Blondie was practically begging me to validate this thing between us, to reassure her she isn’t alone in feeling confused about what this fauxmance has become.

But I was too scared of what I thought she was trying to say—that her wanting to wipe the slate clean meant she would call this whole arrangement off—and subsequently too stunned by what she actually meant, that I wasn’t prepared for the opening when it arrived, smashing into our conversation like the Kool-Aid man minus the enthusiastic, “Oh, yeah!” Not that Blondie gave me the opportunity to get a word in edgewise, but still, I could have told her if I really wanted to.

Maybe I didn’t because last night was about her, about what she needed, but I hate myself for not at least trying.

For letting her walk away after the single most intense sex of my life without telling her the truth.

Without telling her what it meant to me.

It kills me to think that she might now be wondering if these past few weeks—and even that redo she asked for—have been nothing more than casual sex in my mind instead of something more, something else beyond that wonderful chance for forgiveness I’m still not convinced I deserve.

Something I’m terrified to put a name to, even though it’s tearing me up inside not to.

I flop back against my pillow with a frustrated groan and stare up at the ceiling, my brain replaying every second of what happened in the library yesterday in excruciating detail until I’m so hard I have to jerk myself off just so I can think clearly again.

My orgasm hits me so fast I get whiplash, but it unfortunately does little to uncloud my thoughts.

Maybe nothing will until I finally come clean with Blondie.

About my feelings. About what I want us to be.

About everything.

Perhaps, more than anything, that’s why I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I like her. It wasn’t timing, it wasn’t even my own lack of courage (though that was certainly a factor), but the simple fact that she’s in pain, and I don’t have the goddamn cajónes to tell her I know about her mom.

Maybe, on some incomprehensible level, I don’t want to stir up shit between her and Ronnie, since I don’t think Blondie knows her rabid chihuahua of a bestie told me about her current predicament.

It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing Ronnie would admit to, and if Blondie does know, I’m certain she would’ve mentioned it when I revealed what happened to Jamie.

Plus, her not knowing explains why she never invites me inside her house.

Why she seems to jump out of her skin any time I broach the subject of stepping beyond the boundaries of her porch.

Because she’s afraid. She’s afraid I’ll see her mom and figure out the truth.

Besides, Ginger Spice might be a she-devil, but it’s obvious she’s a fierce and protective friend, and I don’t want to do anything that would ever jeopardize that for Blondie, not just because she’s already lost so much, but because coming between two friends like that—especially when Blondie doesn’t have very many—would be a major dick move.

And even I’m not that big of an asshole.

Mostly, I think I don’t tell her because I’m terrified of how she’ll react.

That she’ll be embarrassed I know the truth about why she needs the money from our agreement, and that she’ll pull away from me—from what this is becoming—to protect herself, even though I would never judge her for it, not for one moment.

What wouldn’t I give, what depths wouldn’t I sink to, if it meant bringing Jamie back?

Shit, judging Blondie would be the last thing I’d do.

And I’m sure, after hearing about my brother, she knows that on some level, but still…

even after yesterday, I can’t help fearing she’d use it as an excuse to take the easy way out and break things off.

That she’d insist we go back to the safety and distance of the facade.

And though I’d give her whatever she wants, do anything to make her feel safe and comfortable, it would destroy me inside to do that.

I don’t want to lose this part of her that I only get to see in those moments, when the walls are down and we don’t need to lie.

I don’t want to lose any of her at all.

My chest heaves with another sigh. This situation is so fucked up.

The fact that Blondie had to answer my ad in the first place just to help her sick mom is so fucked up.

Has the system always been rigged this way and I’ve been too blinded by my own privilege to notice?

It feels like such a cop-out to say willful ignorance kept me from seeing the obvious power imbalance that exists because of my money and because of her desperate need for it, but that’s exactly what I’ve been: ignorant.

Before Ronnie told me about Blondie’s mom, this felt like a mutually beneficial arrangement, and I could dismiss that imbalance.

But now, I’m awake to the truth, and I just feel dirty, like the sex we have is only because Blondie feels indebted to me, even though the explosive attraction between us is enough to assure me that’s not true.

Still, that voice of doubt is loud. Sometimes, it’s so loud I could scream.

With another agonized groan, I force myself upright and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

I hate how helpless I feel. I hate knowing that Blondie is in any way suffering and that I’ve only contributed to it.

Hindsight is a bitch, and while I was unaware of her situation at the time of the bet, it isn’t an excuse, nor does it help me figure out what to do about it moving forward.

I just wish there was something I could do now , some way I could be useful beyond my fucking wallet.

Anything to guarantee her mom’s story has a different ending to Jamie’s.

Suddenly, I hate myself for wasting these last four years dwelling in my grief instead of doing something productive with them.

Seriously, what the fuck have I achieved?

Punishing my parents and everyone else around me hasn’t brought Jamie back.

All the mindless sex I’ve had since starting college hasn’t in any way assuaged my suffering, or filled the void in my chest my brother left behind; the only thing that’s managed to do either is being with Blondie, and it’s killing me that I don’t know what to do to help her.

I wish I knew more about her mom’s cancer, about their insurance, about fucking anything , but I can’t exactly ask her about it without telling her Ronnie spilled the beans. And besides, even if I did know any of that information, what the fuck could I do?

Nothing. The sad truth is I can’t do shit.

I lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees, and comb my fingers through my hair before lacing my hands around the back of my neck.

The consequences of my actions these last four years have never felt heavier than they do at this moment, when I’m so close to having a real seat at the table and yet farther than I’ve ever been because I was stupid and immature enough to fuck it all up.

If I hadn’t been so short-sighted and angry, then in another six months, I would be working for Hallazgo, and I would have the access and means to try to do something, anything at all, to help people like Blondie’s mom. Like Jamie.

I only wish I knew what that something was.

I rub my hands across my face and blow a loud breath out through my nose. My mind spins in circles, searching for an answer, for even the smallest drop of inspiration, but I got nothing. As usual, I’m fucking useless.

What I wouldn’t give to have a brain like Blondie’s right about now.

My eyes drift to my bedside table where my phone sits on top of it, silent and still, and it dawns on me that, while I might not be a genius, I do have the next best thing.

Swiping my phone, I open my recent contacts and select my abuela, who answers on the first ring as if she sensed I would be calling.

“?Hola, mi cielo!” she trills, and my worried heart instantly warms at the unabashed affection in her tone. It wraps around me like a soothing embrace.

“Hi, abuelita.” I put the phone on speaker and set it back down on the table. “Are you busy?”

She clicks her tongue. “For you, mi amor? Never.” I can hear the smile in her voice when, not even two seconds later, she asks, “How is that charming girlfriend of yours?”

My stomach flips, and my mouth reflexively stretches so wide my cheeks begin to ache. Never in a million years did I, Damian Navarro, self-proclaimed asshole, think I would grin like a lovesick idiot at the word “girlfriend,” but here I am.

“Lexi is fine,” I tell her, and the words sound like fucking sunshine on my lips. “I’ll tell her you said hi.”

“Please do,” my abuela insists. “Now, as much as I love hearing from you, mi cielo, I’m assuming this isn’t a social call given the hour?”