“A guy who drinks peppermint coffee can’t be trusted with my key.” I hold out my hand. “Give it back, please.” He just keeps walking. “Too late, Hurricane. It’s my key now. And if you think I won’t use it to go in there and rearrange your seashell collection whenever I want, then you clearly didn’t think this through.” “I hate you,” I mutter, dropping my hand to zip my backpack. He just grunts. I guess this is our new friend language. Insults and grunts.
