Page 64 of The Perfect Wrong

Not after that.

Whateverthatwas.

Sighing, I close the laptop and try to crash for the night, hiding under the blankets, drowning out as much of my life as I can.

I just need time. Maybe a nice distraction like travel. There’s still time before summer ends.

There’s a fog wrapped around my body and soul. A trip could banish the worst of it, and as long as I’m off from school, I have the time.

When you’re the daughter of a man who runs an airline, hopping on a plane is about as easy as boarding a city bus.

All I have to do is ask, and I’ll be holding a first-class ticket to anywhere I’d like.

I’m tempted to hop the red-eye up to Washington or even Alaska for a week. Immersing myself in lush greenery and mountains and endless wild air feels like a great way to forget all about Chris Triton and the infinite ways he’s complicated my life.

But I can’t go there just yet.

Not while the step-prick is still here. His presence in the same house knifes through me, ringing like a silent blaring dog whistle that just won’t shut up and only I can hear.

What the hell is his deal, anyway?

So the whole 'oops, we’re accidentally related' thing isn’t too much for him, but the fact that I’m a virgin is?

God.

I’d have never gone all the way regardless, but if I did...

...shouldn’t most guyswanta virgin?

I don’t understand.

And the way he stormed off, pushing me away like I went from gorgeous to ghastly in ten seconds, feels worse than any normal rejection.

He’s so full of himself he could choke on that ego.

Maybe all men are, but I can’t imagine a bigger selfish headcase than this badass freak I’m cursed to share a wall with now.

How can he believe he’ll mess me up forever if we did the unthinkable?

Marnie barely remembers who she slept with her first time, and it hasn’t slowed her down a bit from adding to her serial body count.

Whatever he thinks, I’m the one who suffers from overthinking.

I’m tossing and turning all night.

When I look at my phone around four a.m., I’m sitting up in bed. I listen intently through the quiet, lonely house for any sound of him stirring.

I’m not just restless.

I’mdesperateto prove him wrong—to prove to myself just how much Idon’tneed him or his stupid rejection of a fling that was never happening.

Half an hour later, I hear a subtle chiming sound.

A phone alarm, muted through the wall, and not just in my head.

A minute later, heavy footsteps behind the wall. He’s moving around, probably getting ready for a very early day.

I wait until his door clicks open before I race to mine and fling it open, jumping out in the hall.