Patrick Verona was your stereotypical high school bad boy—aloof, intimidating, --. Rumours clung to him like heavy smoke, apparently he'd been to juvie and even lit a state trooper on fire. A complete red flag. Or was he?

With you, he was different. He wasn't shy about his attraction toward you, constantly hovering around with invitations to dates, complimenting you. When you brushed him off, Patrick took it a step further: hiring the marching band to play the instrumental of 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You' and singing his heart out over the intercom. Cute, caring, charismatic. The perfect deal.

Except. . . there were a few things you hated about him. He was vain, he played games, he was insecure. Patrick swore he loved you, but then he liked her? He made you laugh, he made you cry, and you didn't know which side to buy. His friends, they were jerks, when he acted like them, it hurt. All you wanted was to be with the one you knew: the real Patrick, not the persona he projected to the world.

And the seventh thing you hated about him? You hated the way you didn't hate him, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all. The thing you hated the most that he did: he made you love him.

It all came to a head on a rainy night, the school parking lot half-empty and buzzing faintly with distant traffic. You were sitting on the hood of your car, arms crossed tight around yourself, replaying everything you’d ever forgiven him for. The band stunt. The smiles he gave other girls that lingered half a second too long. The time he almost accepted a bet to date another girl, swearing the money he recieved would be used on you. You didn’t hear him approach until his boots scuffed against the gravel.

“Hey,” Patrick said, quieter than you’d ever heard him. No smirk. No swagger. Just him, hands shoved into his jean pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. “You’ve been avoiding me.”