There’s more to him than a hard body and a dirty mouth, and I feel like I just got a peek at it. I want to know more, to explore him like I explored the woods by the river as a child. I want to get him to open up to me when he doesn’t open to anyone else. And I’m going to tell him so.

Only I don’t make it out of the car before I see him through the picture window at the front of his house. It’s dark and all the lights are on, framing and illuminating the two people on the other side of the glass like a scene on a screen for everyone to see.

He has his arms wrapped around a woman—a beautiful woman in a tiny black dress and sky-high heels. My heart stutters in my chest and I can’t remember how to breathe, and when I try, it hurts. It actually hurts to pull oxygen into my lungs while watching him hold her.

I force the air in, and suffer the sharp pain of my lungs expanding against the jagged tear in my heart. Any hope I had that she’s a sister or cousin, or that there’s some completely reasonable explanation for him touching her, flees. He brings his hands to her face and lowers his mouth to hers—gently, softly. It’s a kiss filled with all that tenderness I yearn for, the affection men just don’t feel for me.

I’m frozen, the jagged edge of my heart sawing at the soft tissue of my slowly expanding and deflating lungs. I can’t take my eyes off him—I can’t unsee this side of Sam I just came to believe was there and hoped to resurface for myself. When he breaks the kiss, he lifts his head and looks right at me. There’s so much on his face that he’d typically hide behind his ever-present cocky grin, but I see it now. Hurt. Regret. Terror.

For a moment, I think he can see me, but then he looks away and I remember I’m concealed by darkness while they’re visible to anyone who might happen by. And he doesn’t care.

That snags on a piece of my heart and it breaks off, tumbling to the pit of my aching stomach. He didn't want anyone to know about us this weekend, but he obviously feels differently about whoever she is.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I whisper to no one. Why do we call ourselves names when we’re alone? Does confessing the worst about ourselves to the darkness make our flaws easier to bear? Or is it because we fear only the darkness is willing to take us as we are—imperfect, incomplete, and so desperate to be accepted?

Sam wraps his arms around her shoulders and gestures outside, and when he gives her that smile—not the cocky grin, but the sweet, vulnerable boy smile—I finally find the strength to put the key in the ignition and drive away.

One night. I promised him I could play by his rules. He worried I’d want more. He was right, and I’ll never let him know.

* * *

I’m a girly girl and proud of it. I wear heels and makeup and do my hair and nails. I don’t like getting sweaty and I love romantic books and movies and the color pink. When Hanna and I got this house together to live in while we finished at Sinclair, the first thing I did was paint my bedroom a very pale shade of pink. I loved it. It was just pink enough to be girly without looking like it should be a baby girl’s nursery. But when I walked in from going to Sam’s last night, the color made me sick to my stomach. Don’t ask me how the color pink makes me think about having my hands tied behind my back and my mouth on Sam, but it does. I can’t live with it anymore.

“Are you okay?” Hanna asks from my bedroom doorway. Maybe she’s asking because I’ve been on a tear all morning, and now all the bedroom furniture is pushed to the middle of my room, draped in pink sheets, and the walls are almost completely repainted.

Beige. It’s a terrible color and a terrible way to feel, but I’ve chosen to surround myself with it. Beige. Stupid beige.

I force a smile, because Hanna’s sensitive, and I don’t want her worrying about me. “I’m fine. Ever feel like you just need a change?”

The wrinkle between her brows tells me she’s not buying my fake peppiness, but she knows when not to push it. “Sam’s here and asking for you. What’s that about?”

My stomach protests at the thought of Sam waiting for me at the front of the house—fear and hurt and hope all take hold of my heart and engage in a three-way game of tug-of-war. Part of me wants to imagine he’s here because he has feelings for me, but it’s more likely that he wants to make sure I don’t tell Miss Little Black Dress about our night together.

He never struck me as the kind of guy who would cheat.

I wipe my hands on my pink sheets turned paint rags and climb down the ladder. “Does he need a cup of sugar?”

She lifts a brow but doesn’t argue with my suggestion. “I’ll be here when you want to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” My smile is so plastic you could make Barbies with it. I push past her and find my way to the living room, where Sam is standing, looking out the window with his hands shoved into his pockets.

He’s in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, but he’s so gorgeous it hurts to look at him. Sometimes it’s nice to want things you can’t have, and sometimes the want is so deep that it’s a flame tearing through your heart.

“Hey, Sam!” I call, keeping my Barbie smile in place.

He turns, and I wait for his eyes to skim over me in my too-short cut-offs and tank, but they don’t. In fact, he’s looking at me, but I can tell he’s not seeing me at all. “Can we talk?”

“Sure! Let me slip on some shoes.” I don’t want to leave with him, but I’m so ashamed of the position I’ve put myself in, the heartbreak I brought on myself, that I don’t want Hanna to witness this conversation either.