The Left Side of Perfect

“Should we get a to-go box? Because there is no way I can eat any more.” Sage pats her stomach and rests her cheek on Colby’s chest. He leans in and gives her a kiss on the top of her head.

  It’s really cute watching Colby and Sage. They’re so freaking sweet. I can actually see how he’s matured and mellowed over the years. He is still intense, and I doubt that will ever change. But he’s also . . . calmer. As if he’s grown into himself and is good with who he is and where he’s at. And watching him with Sage? He looks at peace, something I never saw in him all those years ago. Sage has found herself a damn good man. How she isn’t climbing him like a tree is a little beyond me, because seriously, the man is gorgeous.

  “I’ll grab a box,” Rowdy says, standing from the table.

  I pull out my phone and open my Uber app. “If we’re leaving, I’m going to call for an Uber now. Who knows how long it will take.”

  “I’ll take you home,” Colby offers.

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “You are not taking an Uber,” Sage says. “I’ll go home with Rowdy since I have an early morning, and Colby can take you home.”

  “What’s going on?” Rowdy asks, setting down a to-go box.

  “Colby is taking Ryan home so she doesn’t have to take an Uber, and you’re going to take me home.” I really want to argue this, because yes, it's a forty-minute round trip, but surely Sage wouldn't want to go home with Rowdy when she could get an extra forty minutes with Colby? Not to mention the goodnight kiss.

  “Oh.” Rowdy pauses. “That works.” Huh. Rowdy looks as confused as I am here.

  “You guys, I really don’t mind taking an Uber. I do it all the time.”

  “Just let me take you home. Christ,” Colby groans, irritated.

  And the man has spoken.

  * * *

  “Why do you take an Uber to work when you have a car?” Colby asks, buckling his seatbelt.

  I do the same and set my purse on the floor of his truck, getting comfortable.

  “Because I hate driving in this traffic. I’d rather have someone else drive me while I read.”

  “I thought you only read on occasion, when Oprah tells you what to read.”

  I can’t believe he remembers me saying that. We were in the hotel room after the wedding and he told me he likes to read books, and I made an off-the-cuff comment about Oprah. Some one has a good memory. Hell, I can barely remember what I wore yesterday, let alone remember something someone said months ago.

  Turning toward him, I lean against the side of my passenger door and say, “I decided to expand my reading. I picked up a mystery at the grocery store the other day, and so far, it’s really captivating. I like the escape I get when I read.”

  “I’m the same way.” Colby’s voice grows serious. “For the longest time, it was the only escape I had when I was a kid, and now I find comfort in it. I might read some of the same books over and over again with a new one interspersed between them, but nonetheless, I enjoy the way I can shut off the outside world and live in another reality.”

  “Don’t you read fighter pilot stuff? Isn’t that already your reality?”

  He chuckles and tilts his head toward me, eyes still on the road. “Want to know a secret?”

  “Always.”

  “Not all of them are fighter pilot books.”

  In disbelief, I say, “If you tell me you read romance, I’m going to keel over right now.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, nothing like that. But I do like a good thriller every once in a while. I didn’t start reading those until later on, after college. The aviation fiction genre started to become too much, so I picked up a thriller, and I really enjoy them.”

  When you look at Colby, your initial reaction wouldn’t be this guy reads. You’d more likely wonder what gym workouts he does, because he’s that ripped. But once you begin peeling back the layers, you start to realize he’s not the meathead he looks to be. He’s a kind, caring, and sensitive soul. From what I know about his grandpa, he sounds just like him.

  “Does Sage read too?”

  “A little, but nothing like me. She picks up a book and dabbles in them here and there, but she’ll have a pile on her nightstand, acting as if she’s a big reader.”

  That makes me chuckle. “Putting up a front, huh? That trickster.” Changing the subject because he gave me an opening, I say, “So you saw her nightstand . . .”

  He shakes his head, a grin tilting up his lips. “And?”

  I nudge his arm with my fingers. “Have you two done it yet?”

  Light from the street lamps helps me catch a little glimpse of a blush spread over his cheeks. No matter how many times I try to talk to him about this, he’s still shy. Which he shouldn’t be, because from experience, I know the guy is amazing at sex. Like really fucking amazing.

  I hate to admit, and I would never tell him this in fear of inflating his ego, but he’s the best I’ve ever had. By far. No competition. Colby Brooks is in his own league when it comes to hot fucking, and Sage is one lucky girl to be able to experience what he has to offer.

  He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, no, not really. We’ve fooled around, but we haven’t gone all the way.”

  “Really?” I ask, shocked. What’s the girl waiting for? Hell, I practically jumped his bones the minute I got a chance. Well, there was no practically about it. I did jump his bones the minute I got the chance.

  “Yeah. I don’t know. I feel like she’s not ready, and I don’t want to push her. Balboa was telling me she’s had some trouble in the past with a boyfriend cheating on her so I wonder if maybe that’s why she’s taking it slow. I don’t mind. I’m having fun.”

  “But you’re jacking off every morning in the shower, aren’t you?”

  “Jesus,” he mutters.

  “Stop being so prudish. Hell, I use my vibrator almost every night. It’s almost like clockwork for me now.”

  He stops at a stop sign and turns toward me. “Really?”

  “What? Are men the only ones allowed to masturbate? Don’t be that guy, Colby. Women can do it too.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I know that, but I didn’t think they did it that often.”

  “I’m a sexual creature, my friend. I like to get off before I go to bed, as it helps me relax. I always get a really great sleep if I have a huge orgasm. Don’t you?”

  “Never kept track,” he mutters.

  “What did you say?”

  “I never keep track,” he says a little louder, a hint of annoyance in his words.

  “You really should. After you drop me off, go home, pull up some naked selfies of Sage, and stroke one out. Tell me how great you slept in the morning.”

  “I don’t have naked selfies of Sage.”

  “God, I admire her. Such self-control. So sensible. Sensible Sage.”

  He props his arm up on the car door and steers casually with one hand. “Do you send naked selfies?”

  “Not anymore. That shit will bite you in the ass if you’re not with the right guy.”

  “And you think Sage is with the right guy?”

  I nod very slowly. “I think Sensible Sage is with the perfect guy.”

  Colby shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as perfect, Ryan.”

  “Lies. I’ve seen perfect before.”

  “In what?”

  I think about that for a second and feel the shift in the mood. It’s gone from teasing to more serious. I want to say something profound, something that will blow Colby out of his seat.

  “I guess it’s how you look at it.”

  “What do you mean?” He stops at a stoplight and gives me his attention.

  “To me, there is a left and right side of perfect. The right side of perfect is what society deems worthy of the title. It’s the kind of perfect you believe doesn’t exist, but in others’ eyes, it does. And then there is the left side of perfect, my favorite kind. That’s the kind of soul-bearing perfect, full of flaws and shortcomings. It’s the mo
st beautiful side of perfect . . . the imperfect.”

  He blinks a few times, really studying me, giving thought to my perspective. When the light turns green, he doesn’t drive right away, the empty streets not urging him to move forward. “What side do you see yourself on?”

  I lick my lips, staring into those onyx eyes of his, so dark and focused that I can feel the beat of my heart in my throat.

  “In all honesty, I wish I was on the left side. I wish I could confidently embrace my flaws and be proud of them, but instead, every day, I strive to be on the right side.” Every. Fucking. Day.

  His brow creases, a frown forming over his lips as he tries to understand my answer. “Why?”

  I tear my gaze away, unable to look him in the eyes anymore. His stare is too intense, this moment too transparent for such a small space. “Why do I strive to be on the right side?” I was told to, because my flaws were too numerous. “Because it’s all that’s ever been engrained in me. I don’t even know how to commit to the left side when the right side consumes me every damn day of my life.”

  It’s why I’ll never be enough.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  RYAN

  Eleven years old . . .

  “What did he say? What did he say?” My friend Aleesha jumps up and down.

  I try to be as calm as possible, to not freak out in front of everyone in the hallway, but I can’t contain myself. Grabbing on to Aleesha’s hands, I give her my biggest smile and say, “He said yes.”

  “Ahhh!” she screams at the top of her lungs while running in place, drawing the attention of everyone around us. And guess what? I don’t care, because he said yes.

  Eric Woodside said yes.

  He’s taking me to the dance this Friday. Me, Ryan Collier.

  I still can’t believe it.

  When I was telling my dad about the dance last night, he asked if I was going with anyone. I told him no one had asked, but it was all right because I was going with Aleesha and we’d have fun without needing dates.

  It was my first dance, and I wasn’t going to miss out because I wasn’t asked.

  Dad didn’t accept my answer. He asked me if I could take anyone, who would it be? Of course, I blushed enough for five girls before answering. I’ve never really talked to Dad about boys before, but he was so easy to talk to, so I answered on a whim, telling him I would ask Eric Woodside.

  His next words were, ask him. He told me if I asked Eric to the dance, he would take me shopping to get a new dress and some special makeup for the occasion.

  I’ve been eyeing a dress at Charlotte Russe for weeks that I knew I could fit in. I’ve lost five pounds, so I knew that dress was going to be mine.

  The dress and the fantasy of Eric Woodside taking me to the dance propelled me forward to ask and I’m so glad I did, because I’m going to the dance with one of the hottest boys in sixth grade.

  I could die and go to heaven.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re going to the dance with him. Umm, are you going to get that blue dress from Charlotte Russe?”

  “Yup, and I’m going to get matching blue eyeshadow to go with it.”

  “What about your hair?”

  “Ringlets. I’ll ask my mom if I can borrow her curling iron.”

  “I’m so jealous. Do you think I can come to your place to get ready? Could I use your blue eyeshadow and curling iron too?”

  “Of course!” I link my arm with Aleesha’s and walk toward our next class. I would pretty much let Aleesha do anything, because she’s really my one and only true friend.

  * * *

  “Oh boo bear, you look beautiful,” my dad says as I walk down the stairs to the entryway. His camera flashes and I just about die, because he’s making this too much of a big deal. “And, Aleesha, you look beautiful as well.” She trails behind me, both of us choosing navy-blue dresses and matching eyeshadow.

  “Dad, the pictures aren’t necessary. It’s just a little dance.”

  “As a parent, I reserve the right to take as many pictures as I want.”

  My mom comes up beside him, assessing both Aleesha and me, her gaze judgmental, her eyes narrowing in at my waist. I suck in just enough to earn a curt nod from her.

  “Very nice, ladies,” my mom finally says, never pulling out the insults around company. “Where’s this Eric boy you told us about?”

  “Oh, I’m meeting him at the dance. I told him I’m wearing navy-blue, so I hope he matches.”

  “He will.” Aleesha squeezes my arm.

  “Well, let’s get in the car so I can take you lovely ladies to the school. You don’t want to be late.”

  We pile into my dad’s Mustang convertible, both sitting in the small back seat, joking the whole time that Dad is the chauffer, which he laughs about and then threatens to throw the top down. But that would only mess up our hair.

  The minute we pull up at school, Aleesha and I bounce out of the car, thanking my dad quickly, and take off toward the gym.

  “I’m so excited. Do you think anyone will want to dance with me?” Aleesha asks.

  “Oh, for sure. There will be so many guys who want to dance with you. They will be lining up out the door.”

  “Stop it,” Aleesha teases as we make our way through the doors.

  The gym isn’t as magical as I thought it might be, with the bleachers out for seats and only a few decorations hanging from the basketball hoops, but the lighting surrounding the perimeter is blue, our school colors, which adds a fun feel to the room.

  There is a DJ to the right, students nowhere to be found on the dance floor, but instead, segregated by boys and girls.

  “Why isn’t anyone dancing?”

  “Maybe it’s still early,” Aleesha answers. “Let’s find Eric for you. He’s going to die when he sees you in this dress.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  We walk around the gym, looking for Eric, saying hi to a few people we know, and stopping at the table with cupcakes and juice. We each take a cupcake and slowly eat it as we stand to the side.

  “Where do you think he is?” I take a bite of the chocolate cake, savoring the flavor. So freaking good.

  “No idea. Oh wait, isn’t that Chris, his best friend?”

  My eyes scan to where Aleesha is pointing, and she’s right. “Let’s go ask him.”

  We make our way across the dance floor where a few kids are dancing now and tap Chris on the back. When he turns around he groans.

  Not the kind of greeting I was expecting. “Hey Chris. Do you know where Eric is? We’re going to the dance together.”

  “No, you’re not,” Chris answers, his voice irritated.

  My brow pulls together. “Yes, we are. I asked him this week. He said yes.”

  Chris sighs and shakes his head. “He said yes because he felt bad saying no to your face. He’s here with Becky, see?” Chris points to the corner where I see two figures, one looking a lot like Eric, with his lips all over another girl.

  The room fades as my eyes narrow in on the two figures. They’re kissing and holding hands, doing all the things I wanted to do with Eric, that I thought I’d be doing with Eric tonight.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, deflated, unable to suck my stomach in any longer.

  “He doesn’t like you, Ryan. You’re not his type.” His type?

  “What’s his type?”

  Chris walks by me, muttering something under his breath.

  “What did you say?”

  Turning one last time, he looks me up and down and says, “His type isn’t you. You’re no one’s type, Collier.”

  Oh God.

  I’m going to be sick.

  And with that, he walks away. A Pink song plays in the background, and an empty hole forms in my heart.

  His type isn’t you.

  You’re no one’s type.

  I can vaguely hear Aleesha telling Chris off, and trying to console me, but my mind is in a fog. I was so
very wrong. Eric never would have said yes to me. Did he tell everyone I asked him? Will the whole school find out? There is no way I want to stay and look around the room. But, because I'm stupid—ugly and stupid it seems—I glance to the corner of the gym where Eric is with his actual date. His actual type.

  I take in the way Eric is pressing against Becky, the way he holds her hand, and pushes her hair behind her ear. His type isn't you.

  Pretty and absolutely perfect Becky is.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  COLBY

  “What took you so long?”

  I open the door and let Ryan in, taking the bag of steaming food from her, my mouth watering.

  “You know, a thank you would be sufficient.”

  “You said you were going to be here at twelve hundred hours. You’re half an hour late.”

  She sheds her shoes, shuts the door behind her, and follows me to the kitchen. “I did not say twelve hundred hours. I don’t speak like that. I said noon, which encompasses the time between twelve and one.”

  I pause, lifting an eyebrow in her direction. “Where the hell did you get that from?”

  “It’s general knowledge. People say noon to avoid making a commitment to an exact time.”

  “No.” I set the bag on the table and pull out to-go boxes. “Noon means twelve hundred hours.”

  “Can you speak like a human, please?”

  I roll my eyes and pop my box open while taking a seat. I couldn’t care less about a drink right now; I need food. I had one hell of a workout this morning and breakfast barely held me over. We have a nighttime mission tonight, and since Ryan works at nights, I figured it would be cool to hangout. I told her to bring burritos, but had I known she’d be late, I never would have suggested it.

  “That is speaking like a human. Twelve hundred hours is the same as twelve o’clock, which is the same as noon.”

  Making herself at home, she goes to the fridge, grabs water for the both of us, and then takes a seat, digging into her burrito. She points to my hand while the other scoops up a giant bite of burrito. “Go ahead, look it up. I bet you anything I’m right.”