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To sum it up, he was a morally gray hunk who was a total red flag—my age group’s favorite color scheme.
“Fine. Want the truth? Here’s the truth: No, I didn’t ‘have feelings’ for you.” He air-quoted the words with a sneer. “I was in love with you. Honest to fucking God, full-blown, snatch-my-heart-out-and-let-you-use-it-as-a-stress-ball in love with you.” He looked disgusted with himself for uttering each word. “And you didn’t give half a shit about me.”
“I didn’t fall.” He omitted a sharp, irritated huff. “You fucking tripped me.”
I wasn’t sure if I was touched by his concern for my phobias or enraged by his uncalled-for possessiveness. My ancestors had not burned bras on the street so he could treat me like a prize he could knock over the head and drag into his cave for a good time.
