The Score

“Nothing.” I take the drink the bartender hands me and swiftly duck away from the counter.

Dean stays hot on my heels, so I walk faster, and then we’re with our friends again and I breathe in relief. Good. Now he can’t pester me for answers anymore.

Penelope immediately rushes over, and my spine stiffens when she latches her talons onto Dean’s bare forearm. The black T-shirt he’s wearing stretches across his perfect chest and shows off his perfect arms. The same arms that were pinning me down the other night when he was moving inside me.

I swallow a mouthful of my drink and try to pay attention to Hannah. She’s talking about her showcase rehearsals and how happy she is that the faculty is letting her sing an original composition instead of pairing her up with a songwriting major.

“I’m thinking of sending out some demos to labels,” she admits.

“Really?” She mentioned a few months ago that she might want to focus more on songwriting than performing, but I hadn’t realized it was a serious consideration on her part.

“Yeah.” She toys with a strand of dark hair, which draws my attention to the neon-green clip holding it back. It’s the only splash of color in her all-black getup. “I love composing. I mean, I also love being on stage, but Dexter and I were fooling around on the piano at rehearsal last night, and when he sang one of the songs I was working on, it was…”

I tune her out. I’m an awful friend, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m far too distracted by the evil vulture that’s pecking at Dean like he’s a juicy carcass. Running her manicured fingers up and down his arm. Stroking his biceps. Leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

In his defense, he doesn’t appear to notice that Penelope is glued to his side. His gaze is fixed on me, and it’s growing cloudier by the second.

I sip my drink and spend the next hour making an effort to be social. But I’m just getting increasingly angry—at myself.

I inadvertently cast Dean in a role that he shouldn’t be playing. He’s not my boyfriend. I shouldn’t be texting him after I have a bad day. I shouldn’t be upset that he didn’t text back, or that he’s talking to another girl.

Though, again, in his defense, he doesn’t seem the least bit interested in Penelope. Every time I sneak a peek at them, he’s on his phone and not paying her a lick of attention.

My clutch keeps buzzing, which tells me he’s most likely texting me. But my phone stays in my purse because I’m too busy dealing with the realization that apparently I’m helpless without a boyfriend.

I’m…co-dependent? Is that the right word? And is that why I kept getting back together with Sean? Because I can’t be alone? I had a boyfriend the entire time I was in high school too…

Okay. I might be making a mountain out of a molehill right now. Just because I’ve always had a boyfriend doesn’t mean I’ve got issues, right? I like having a boyfriend. I like holding hands and kissing and snuggling and telling each other about our days. That doesn’t mean I need one at all times.

Maybe I just suck at flings. I’m sure plenty of other women have problems separating emotions from sex.

Still, this is all very disheartening. I decide it’s time to go. I’m not paying attention to a word anyone is saying, and now I kind of want to go home and Google “co-dependency” to see if I can self-diagnose myself.

I do want to pee first, though, so I excuse myself and walk toward the restrooms. I don’t bother turning around to see if Dean is following me, because I know he is. I caught a glimpse of him in my periphery, disentangling himself from Penelope the moment I moved away from the table.

To my frustration, the line for the ladies’ room is unacceptably long. Nope, I’m not waiting thirty minutes to use the toilet. I don’t have to go that bad. But I know if I turn around, I’ll probably bump into Dean.

I keep walking straight ahead toward the emergency exit. I’ve used it before, so I don’t expect an alarm to go off, and it doesn’t. Cold air hits my bare arms and legs when I step into the alley behind Malone’s. I hurriedly put on my coat just as the door flies open and Dean emerges.

“Go away,” I tell him.

His nostrils flare. “No.”

“Fine, then stay out here. I’m going home.” I fumble with the clasp of my clutch. I need to call a cab and tell Hannah I’m leaving. Dean snatches the purse from my hand, summoning an irritated expletive. “Can I please I have my purse back?” I demand.

“No. Not until you tell me why you’re pissed at me.”

I don’t answer.

“Stop acting like a brat and fucking talk to me,” he orders.

“Why don’t you go find Penelope?” I suggest. “I’m sure she’d be happy to talk to you. If you’re lucky, she might even stick her tongue down your throat again.”

He’s momentarily startled. Then he starts to laugh. “You’re jealous of Penelope?”

“I’m not jealous,” I answer coolly. “I just don’t appreciate being lied to.”

Dean’s jaw falls open. “When did I lie to you?”

My cheeks heat up. Damn it. Damn him. And damn me for giving him the power to make me feel so…so…God, I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now.

“You promised to let me know if you were going to hook up with someone else,” I accuse.

“I didn’t hook up with her.”

“Hannah said you were kissing her.”

“No, she was kissing me. Or trying to, at least. I told her I wasn’t interested.”

“You did?” Some of my indignation falters, but I force myself not to soften. It doesn’t matter what Dean did or didn’t do. I still allowed this fling to veer in a direction I’m not comfortable with, and now it’s time to get back on the right path.

“Yes, I did,” he retorts, “because contrary to what you believe, I’m a man of my word. I told you I wouldn’t screw around with anyone else.”

“Fine. I believe you.” I swallow. “Can I go now?” I try to grab my purse but he keeps it out of my reach.

“You’re still pissed,” he says flatly.

“I’m not.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, baby doll,” he snaps.