“You left me,” he accused hoarsely. I whimpered. “You left me first.” Maybe not physically, but mentally and emotionally? Rowdy had been the first to walk away. And it had hurt far worse than me packing my shit and walking. As if my words had sparked some detail he’d forgotten, he tensed a moment before he slammed his fist on top of the Honda’s roof, making me jump just before he tore away from me.
