Page 94 of Faking the Goal

"That's hard to believe." His frown deepens. "Every time I see you, you're surrounded by people. Aren't they your friends?"

I huff, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "The people you see me with? They're acquaintances. Party buddies. They're the people I drink with, dance with until two in the morning, then don't hear from again until somebody's throwing another party." I offer him a small, crooked smile. "When the fun stops, everybody goes home, and so do I. Alone."

He doesn't interrupt, and maybe that's why I keep going.

"Most girls can't stand me because they're convinced I'm after their boyfriends, which is honestly exhausting considering I'm usually not even looking at their boyfriends. And the guys..." I give a dry little laugh. "Well, the guys usually only want one thing from me, and trust me, it isn't friendship."

Something shifts in his expression.

And I hate it immediately.

"Don't look at me like that."

His brows pull together. "Like what?"

"Like you feel sorry for me."

"I don't."

"You do. I know that look."

His jaw shifts slightly, but he doesn't argue.

"I don't need your pity." The words come out sharper than I mean them to, and I immediately hate how defensive I sound. "I've gotten used to being on my own."

Lie.

The word comes so quickly that my stomach twists.

I lower my eyes to my latte and run my thumb over the cardboard sleeve.

I'm good at being alone.

There's a difference.

Being good at something doesn't mean you fucking like it.

I learned a long time ago how to eat by myself, entertain myself, take care of myself, drag my own ass through whatever shitty thing life throws at me and come out the other side without expecting somebody to be waiting there.

That doesn't mean I've never wondered what it would be like if someone actually was.

Someone who called because they missed me. Someone I could show up at their door without needing an invitation. Someone who knew when I was lying about being fine because they'd known me long enough to recognize the difference.

Someone who knew me.

Not Party Taylor. Not Hot Taylor. Not the girl who can get everyone into the club or convince some guy to buy another round.

Just me.

And apparently all it takes to drag that pathetic little truth out of whatever locked basement I keep it in is Kentaro fucking Azuma asking me three things about myself.

Maybe he really does want to know me.

And maybe if he does, he'll understand me a little better. Maybe it'll change whatever opinion he still has of me.

Although... I think it already has.

Because now that I think about it, he hasn't acted like a judgmental asshole toward me in weeks. We still bicker, and God knows I still get on his nerves, but somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like I had to defend every little thing I did around him.