The Worst Guy (Vital Signs #2)

by Kate Canterbary

All this messy chose me—and I was okay with that. I mean, I had to be. I was a perfectionist good girl with the heart of a raging bitch. Messy was the only way to rock this bun. I was really good at my job, yet stupid old imposter syndrome kicked my ass on the daily. I was scrappy as fuck and more delicate than anyone had the right to be. I was vain as hell yet bristled at being judged on my appearance first, my surgical pedigree second. I swore fluently and often.

I came across as inconsistent and moody. Hot and cold. I was thirty-nine years old and a pickier eater than most toddlers. That, plus an endless list of chronic digestive issues meant no one could take me anywhere—but don't even think about not inviting me.

I wanted to show her off tonight. Stand in front of all of our friends, loop my arm around her waist, say, "Do you see? This one's mine." At the same time, I wanted to barricade us behind locked doors and under cozy blankets, press her hand to my chest, and say, "Do you see? This one's yours."