Taunting him, I ease closer. “What did she do, Dutch? Did she take off with your car? Or your wallet? Or maybe your black hole of a heart?” His lips are thinning out and steam is rising from his preppy shirt. Alarm bells go off in my head, screaming bloody murder. I keep going because, apparently, I love poking angry lions. “Or,” my chest brushes his, “did she find out that you’re a scared little boy who plays games and trashes lockers instead of having a conversation about what the hell he really wants.”
