“Give me your phone.” “Why?” He grits his teeth. “Because I said so.” I hand it over; he already knows the password. He swipes and scrolls through my text messages, then wrinkles his nose when he doesn’t find anything. I don’t know what makes me say it . . . “Let me see your phone.” Bryan scoffs and shakes his head. “No.” “You get to look at my phone, why can’t I look at yours?” “Because I’m not the one doing shady shit. You are.” I roll my eyes, and he drops my phone in the gravel drive, picks up our suitcases, and carries them toward the house.
asshole
