Page 74 of Clinically Awkward

“I do.”

“Quinton.”

“Vivian.” His voice was firm. Steady. Terrifyingly calm. “I have to do this. I want to do this.”

“He’s not going to care,” I said desperately. “Julien doesn’t care who I’m dating. He barely cares that I exist.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is! We’re not—we don’t have that kind of relationship. He’s not going to be mad. He’s just going to be annoyed that you’re wasting his time with unnecessary emotional drama.”

Quinton smiled. It was a small, sad smile that made my chest ache. “Maybe,” he said. “But I still have to tell him.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve better than being someone’s secret.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

And for one brief, terrifying moment, I thought I might cry.

“Quinton!” Julien’s voice echoed from the clinic entrance. “Are you coming or not?”

Quinton took a breath and then he walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine, and headed toward the clinic as I stood there, frozen, watching him go.

This is it, I thought. This is the moment everything changes.

And I had absolutely no idea if that was a good thing or a terrible thing.

Probably both.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Vivian

I followed Quinton into the clinic like a woman walking toward her own execution.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. My hands were shaking. My stomach felt like I had swallowed a bag of rocks. This is fine, I told myself. Everything is fine. Julien won’t care. He’ll just be annoyed. Maybe mildly irritated. Possibly homicidal.

Okay, not fine.

Quinton was three steps ahead of me, his shoulders squared, his jaw set in that terrifyingly calm way that meant he made up his mind and nothing—nothing—was going to change it.

I wanted to grab him by the arm and drag him back to the parking lot. I wanted to scream at him to stop being so stupidly noble. I wanted to—I nearly slammed into his back when he stopped abruptly just inside the entrance. “What the—” I started, then looked up and froze.

Standing near the reception desk, arranged in a semicircle like some kind of twisted welcoming committee, were Fitz, Gabriel, Hayden, and Nathan.

All four of them. At 7:09 in the morning. With enormous, conspiratorial grins plastered across their faces.

Oh my God!

“Morning, Quinton,” Fitz said cheerfully, his British accent somehow even more pronounced than usual. “Lovely day for a confession, isn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?” Quinton asked, his voice flat.

“Moral support,” Gabriel said.