The Worst Guy (Vital Signs #2)

by Kate Canterbary

Those competitions—the ones where they tossed small, weigh-nothing women into the air like permanent neurological damage was no big deal—chilled me the fuck out. Cheerleading was to me what true crime podcasts were to women with attachment issues.

"Now, Sebastian," she started, clearly enjoying his misery, "where is Sara from?" "I don't know," he replied. "Hell, probably." I winged the pineapple at him hard. He had to stumble backward to catch it. "And Sara," Milana said, "where is Sebastian from?" "If I had to guess, I'd say a defective condom."

"You could try being pleasant to her. Wouldn't hurt," Acevedo said. "It would. Not my blood type," I replied.

"Strangle me for all I care. If I die, I die."

"Just for my reference, who am I to you?" I asked. "Tonight." And always?

"People look at life like it's a series of checkboxes. Graduate, go to work, get married, get a house, have a kid, get a dog, have another kid, go to Disney World, send the kids off to school, retire, spoil the grandkids. There's always something to do next. Always another checkbox. It keeps you busy, keeps you from looking around and wondering 'What's the point of all this?'"

"No one will ever love you the way I do," he said.

I don't need the words. I already know what I need to know. I just need you to choose me."

"I don't want to be alone with anyone but you. Understand?"