Page 72 of Darkest Obsession

“This isn’t a date, by the way,” she says sternly. “Keep that in mind.”

“Sorted.”

A date. I would never take a girl like Clover on a breakfast date. She deserves way more adventure than that.

We only talk about school during breakfast. No blackmail, no stalker stuff. Just classes and sports. When we’re nearly done with our food — we both got enormous stacks of pancakes with eggs and bacon — I ask her about the dance team. Clover rolls her pretty, very large eyes.

“It’s much better now that we don’t have annoying boys dragging their machines back and forth daily.”

Annoying boys. Hm. Girls always say that when they’re into you.

“I’ve watched you dance. You look pretty.”

“Stop calling me pretty, Thomas.”

“Why?” It’s true. Just because she isn’t one of the thin, blond girls on the tennis team doesn’t mean she isn’t pretty. Only Kit cares what other guys think about the girl they want. It doesn’t matter what other men think about the beautiful girl I like. If I like her, other opinions don’t matter.

“I spent my entire life online,” she says. “I know I’m not pretty. My own mom wants to get me plastic surgery for my birthday. I’m average. Maybe a little below average. I don’t have a flat stomach like Sylvia or perfect curves like Kola. Guys don’t like women with dread locks and look at my nose. It’s a big old black nose that my mom wants to chop down until I look like Madison Beer.”

I stop because I know I should say the right thing to her. How could she say such horrible things about herself?

“So you think these things because of your mum? Because of comments?”

“Because of my life,” Clover snaps. “Guys only want to sleep with me because I put myself out there. Not because of my looks. My friends are just good people who don’t care about looks and my mom… She just knows I’ll have an easier life if I look better.”

“That’s rubbish.”

“Don’t tell me my opinion is rubbish,” Clover snaps.

“But it is rubbish,” I insist. “Guys want to sleep with you, because you’re beautiful, smart, and you’re a dancer with a great body. Your friends would love you even if you looked like a Venus Fly Trap and as for your mum… She should have told you how fucking beautiful you were. Every day.”

Clover’s face tightens with disapproval and she shakes her head.

“Whatever.”

“For the record, your dread locks are fucking cool.”

Her eyes meet mine with surprise and I shrug. I’m not lying. I like them. I wish I could put my fingers in them and feel the texture of the very thick strands, but I know she would only chop my hands off if I dared. It’s just breakfast and we’re not friends. It’s just a one off.

“Thanks,” she says, her shoulders relaxing a bit. “That’s… weirdly… nice.”

Perhaps it’s a bit embarrassing too.

“That person threatened you again,” I tell her. “I don’t want you alone today. I’m serious.”

“Then we’ll go to the dean together after this. We played their little game but… now it’s done. We get the administration involved and we’ll be fine.”

“We don’t have to pretend to be friends after that,” I respond stupidly.

“Good point,” she says. “I guess this is our last breakfast together.”

“First and last.”

“Yup,” Clover says.

I tell myself that she sounds sad, but she’s probably relieved to be rid of me. Once we go to the dean, I’ll let her go.

I’ll make myself this time… I promise.