Page 77 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

Más vale solo que mal acompanado - Better alone than in bad company

Translation: Being alone is preferable to surrounding myself with the wrong people. Time to cut the dead weight and focus on what really matters.

While seeing Blondie flustered is always an entertaining experience, witnessing her crushing terror this afternoon was not.

I know I blindsided her by showing up like I did at her house, which sucks since I really didn’t mean to.

I was genuinely worried about her when she didn’t answer my texts.

And not in a creepy stalker I-require-all-your-undivided-attention kind of way, but in a shit-I-hope-nothing-bad-has-happened way.

Seeing the state of her mom, it seems I was right to worry.

I know Blondie was freaking out about me being there and finding out what’s going on at home; I just wish I understood why she’s so reluctant to tell me about it.

At first, before we became…whatever we are now to each other, I could see why she might not view me as the right person to confide in about her mom’s illness and their financial troubles.

But now? And after I told her about Jamie to try to show her just how much I understand?

Well, I don’t fucking get it.

Though I played it as cool as I could, it hurt when she kicked me out, and that rejection has been screwing with me all day, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything else.

Since leaving Blondie’s house, I spent the bulk of the remaining afternoon and evening in the campus library (shocking, I know), researching as much as possible about existing programs that help people with healthcare costs, as well as gathering demographic data to work out local cost of living and the gap between available income and the burden of medical expenses.

But I don’t honestly know how much of any of it I retained.

I had planned on talking to Blondie today about working on a proposal for Hallazgo together, but with how things went down at her house, it wasn’t the right time to bring it up.

Judging from Blondie’s reaction when I left earlier, maybe it never will be.

I sigh, trudging up the stairs to the second floor of my dorm.

It’s weird, calling it a night when it’s not even ten p.m. on a Friday, especially when I can hear students hollering from somewhere down the hall, probably pre-gaming with beer pong or flip cup before heading off to whatever frat or sports team house is hosting a party tonight.

Just three months ago, I would’ve been right there with them, getting so drunk I couldn’t see straight and scouting campus for my latest hook-up.

Now, the desire to fuck around like that is entirely gone. I’d rather spend my evenings out with Blondie on one of our fake dates, jovially arguing about one thing or another, or better yet, with my face buried between her legs.

It’s crazy how much has changed in such a short space of time—how much I’ve changed since she came back into my life…

and especially since Halloween, when my feelings slapped me in the face.

I wish I knew what she was thinking, and if she’s struggling to the same extent I am with the blurred lines of our agreement.

If she’s also failing to see where the lie ends and the truth begins since we began sleeping together.

But then…I’m not lying. Not anymore. Not about any of it.

And despite the terms of our agreement, I don’t want this to end.

I want her— all of her—not just the part I get when we’re in bed, or the part she offers to fulfill her side of our arrangement.

I want all of her parts, even the ugly ones—the parts she thinks I won’t understand.

And maybe I won’t, but I’ll sure as hell try.

At this point, I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for her.

I contemplate calling her to talk out what happened earlier when I turn into the corridor to my room and stop short. Mason is standing outside my door, his back to the wall, hands thrust deep in his pockets. There’s zero doubt in my mind he’s waiting for me.

I’m about to back away—to find someplace to wait him out since I’m really not in the mood to deal with him right now—but he must sense me because his pale eyes dart to mine.

“There you are,” he shouts down the hallway. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”

I cover my grimace by wiping my nose. “I’ve been out. If you needed something, you should’ve just called.”

Mason’s eyes narrow on me as I move closer. “I did.”

I blink in surprise. What is he talking about? I haven’t received any texts or calls in the last two hours—from him or anyone.

Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I press the side button to turn on the screen. “Shit. Phone’s dead.” Fuck. I really hope Blondie didn’t try to call me. Shrugging it off as if it’s no big deal, I slide the device back into my jeans and lock eyes with Mason. “What’s up? Did you need something?”

Mason assesses me for a moment, looking first at the general vicinity of my pocket where I just stashed my phone, then at the notebook tucked under my opposite arm. His brow hitches upward when he meets my gaze again. “So, did she forgive you?”

I stiffen. “What?”

Mason rolls his eyes. “Poor Girl,” he answers, and it’s impossible to miss the note of disdain in his voice. “Considering you didn’t exactly offer any explanation before chucking the keys to the Mas at my head, I’m going to go out on a limb and assume she’s why you gave back the car.”

He points to his forehead where, sure enough, there’s a red mark half obscured by his greasy hair.

I snort. “Not my fault your hand-eye coordination is shit.” I don’t think the guy could even jerk himself off without staring at his dick to be certain he’s grabbing the correct body part.

Mason observes me for another lengthy moment, waiting for said explanation or an apology, maybe—neither of which he’s entitled to or deserves.

I did so much shady, hurtful shit these last three years because I stupidly allowed him to goad me on, and I’m finally done.

With all of it, but especially with him.

That’s why I didn’t bother explaining myself when I returned his keys this morning.

I simply walked into his room, tossed him the keys, and told him the Maserati was his.

Because that car was just an extension of my association with Mason, and I need to cleanse myself of both—of anything that reminds me of my bad decisions and the pain I inflicted.

I can’t keep being fake friends with Mason and driving his car and mean a single word of the apology I gave Blondie.

The two just aren’t compatible, and only one of those two things actually matters to me.

He cocks a brow. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

I shrug, eyeing my door behind his left shoulder. The door he’s inconveniently blocking. “What do you want me to say?”

He frowns. “I don’t know, man. The whole thing just seems weird is all. The bet went public months ago, but you didn’t ditch the car then, not even during the worst of the backlash. You didn’t even flinch when that shit broke the internet and people were calling you a dick.”

No thanks to you, I’m tempted to say, but I hold my tongue.

“But now, out of nowhere, you’re done with it?

” I shrug again, which only infuriates him because he hastily adds, “It makes me wonder why she’s dating you if she’s still pissed about all that, but hey, what do I know?

Women , am I right?” The condescending manner in which he manages to debase the entire opposite sex in a single breath ignites an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.

No, Mason, you’re not right. You’re just a tool.

I huff out a sigh. “The bet was shitty of us, Mason. Maybe I’m tired of being a shitty person.”

And it’s true. The bet might have been Mason’s idea—and the subsequent fallout entirely down to his reckless stupidity—but I still took him up on the challenge.

I still participated and demeaned all those women, not unlike the way he’s demeaning Blondie now.

I was so blinded by my own grief and anger toward my dad that I couldn’t even see what a fucking terrible person I was becoming.

But now, my eyes are opened, and I don’t want to be that person anymore. Not just for Blondie, but for me.

I want to be someone my abuelo and Jamie would be proud of.

“You know, you used to be fun.”

Mason sneers, and though I try not to take the bait—not to rise to the insult—I can’t help myself. The question is out before I can stop it.

“Meaning?”

His upper lip curls as he looks me up and down, as if he’s really seeing me now that the douchey mask has been peeled away.

“Look at you,” he mocks. “Returning a fucking Maserati, playing the doting boyfriend, not even pretending to care about your rep anymore.” He shakes his head as if he can’t fathom anything being more important.

“A few months ago, you would’ve laughed in my face if I told you this is where you’d end up. ”

I shrug. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I never gave a fuck about your opinion.”

As long as I’ve known him, Mason has just been background noise in my life.

It was always easy enough to ignore him, only cranking up the volume when I needed entertaining or an accomplice for some stupid prank, but now, it’s time to tune him out for good.

To turn off the sound on that part of my life and let something better play in its place.

Mason scoffs. “If you say so, man. I wish you the best or whatever.” He pushes away from the door then and starts to walk past me, only turning at the last moment to throw out, “I just hope Poor Girl’s worth it.”

As he retreats down the hallway, I glare at the back of the head.

“Don’t fucking worry,” I grind out between clenched teeth as I unlock my door. “She is.”