He’s wrecking me and he doesn’t even know it. Or maybe he does and is past the point of caring. His hands grip my hips, his chest against my back. I do my best to ignore him as I rinse my hands in the scalding water, patting them against the pink stain I’m likely making worse. “I didn’t like you drinking with him,” he finally says, and I shake my head, so goddamn angry with him. He has no right. Just like I have no right.
