Twenty-Seven by P.L. Hernandez

Author:P.L. Hernandez [Hernandez, P.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798986428710
Publisher: Bowl Books Publishing
Published: 2022-12-17T16:00:00+00:00

I am not a Sympathetic Protagonist

YOU KNOW that moment when the protagonist does something completely stupid and selfish? That’s this moment. I’m not too self-righteous to admit it. I’m the asshole. And this? This is the moment any reasonable person would decide I deserve the heartbreak in store for me.

Here’s a little recap:

I skipped the bridal party dance in favor of following Carter up to his hotel room, clumsily making out in elevators and down hallways on the way. I almost broke my damn ankle from nearly falling down in the heels I’d been wearing. Finn was right – Carter showed up in that outfit with “shag plans.” There wasn’t a single ounce of petulance or self-righteousness in my body stronger than how good he looked and how desperately I wanted him.

We didn’t spend much time talking, but at some point, after some off-the-cuff compliment about my dress, I revealed the deep, dark secret of my winter formal dress. I told him how heartbroken I’d been that he never followed through with his on again-off again insinuations that there might be more between us.

“Your brother would have killed me. I couldn’t go there,” he said. “But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

I still was. Going somewhere – that is. But that was no reason to spoil a beautiful night with an old argument.

I let him keep talking. He stared up at the ceiling, musing about what life could look like together, now that he had all the pertinent information. Even with as tempting as his propositions were, they all involved me “staying home and settling down.” That little (monumental) life adjustment just wasn’t something I was willing to accept. I would still be leaving in the morning, albeit very quietly and carefully, so as not to wake him up.

When he fell asleep, I took stock of him in a way I hadn’t in all the other nights he’d fallen asleep before me. That might be the last time I ever saw him. Even if it wasn’t, he’d never forgive me. I was, for all intents and purposes, a few quiet hours from becoming the villain in his story.

I took note of the two little chicken pox scars on his forehead – so much more prominent when his eyebrows furrowed, but still visible if you look hard enough. The beauty mark just off to the bottom left side of his chin, below the corner of his mouth. Hard to see underneath all the stubble, but I knew exactly where to look. His long eyelashes. The tsunami of strawberry blonde hair still perfectly coiffed atop his head. The curves and edges of his torso, arms, and shoulders. The random tattoos on his shoulder, back, and underside of his biceps that I never asked about. How many of his stories hadn’t I heard because I’d been too wrapped up in my own shit to ask?

He deserved better. More than all the things I’d never be able to give him, I was still kind of an asshole at heart.

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