Page 71 of The Breakup Artists

He raises an eyebrow. “Nice? Is that the whole truth?”

I press my lips together and then resign myself to answering. “Fine. More than nice. Like stomach-dropping, knee-weakening perfection. The kind of kiss that I’m thinking about even right now. You happy?”

The surprise on his face is gratifying. “Very,” he replies. “But I’m also relieved. I don’t know what I’d do if the best kiss of my life was no more than okay for you.” The way his eyes flit from my eyes to my mouth makes my lips part like betrayers.

“You might be the worst,” I say in almost a whisper.

But he only smiles. “I think we just established that I’m not.” He gently touches my cheek, his warm and calloused fingers tracing a line to my mouth.

“My turn,” I say, having a hard time focusing on anything other than his touch. “What’s your favorite thing about yourself?”

He drops his hand. “Besides the fact that I just made you blush?”

“Yes, very much besides that.”

“Okay, let’s see,” he says, thinking. “Probably that I’m a bedtime whisperer.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Huh?”

“Basically that I can get the twins to sleep in under ten minutes. Always.”

I stare at him. His favorite thing about himself is a parenting ability he shouldn’t have for another fifteen years. “Really?”

“Yup,” he confirms. “When my mom started leaving them with me, I couldn’t handle bedtime. An hour of fighting and crying. I used to dread it. Now I love it.”

“How come I’ve never heard you talk about these things before?” I ask, curious about this version of Bentley who’s so different from the one I thought I knew.

He smirks. “Before a few days ago, you barely talked to me at all.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Fair. But do you talk about this stuff with Charlie or Cassie or whoever?” I say, referencing his ex-girlfriend who is kind of awful but an essential part of his friend group.

“Nah,” is all he says.

I wonder how I never noticed that Bentley compartmentalized his life like that. I guess I just wasn’t paying attention.

“Tell me something people don’t know about you,” he says when I don’t respond, lacing his fingers through mine.

The first thing that comes to mind is Summer Love, but that’s a shared secret and not mine to tell. The second is something I don’t want to be true.

“I told you I shit my pants,” he reminds me. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

I look at him, desperately trying to think of something that fulfills his ask, but the same thought loops on repeat, one that I’ve been in denial about. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, and it spills out of me. “I’m not sure I want to go to Berkeley in two months.”

When I open my eyes, he’s looking at me like he doesn’t understand. “You’re thinking of deferring?”

“No. I don’t want to go, full stop,” I say and feel the air whoosh out of me, shocked by how strangely liberating it felt. “The thing is, August and I have been planning on going to business school there sinceforever. We’ve worked all of high school to have the grades and extracurriculars to make it happen. It’stheplan, like, our collective dream for the future.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I don’t know. I...” My voice trails off, embarrassment flaming my cheeks. “I kinda hate the idea of being that far from home?” I feel silly saying it, like it’s a failing of some kind.

He nods. “That makes a lot of sense to me.”

“It does?” I say, unsure, but also desperately wanting the agreement.

“Sounds cheesy, but I love this town.”

But his answer isn’t so much comfort as a reaffirmation of what I’m struggling with. Guys like Bentley stay put. They’re hot and popular in high school, don’t give a lot of thought to college, and wind up marrying the head cheerleader at nineteen. And when you run into them in the supermarket ten years later, you thank your lucky stars you got out. I look away, immediately feeling guilty about my unkind prediction of his future.