And there is nothing that turns me into my worst, clawing, scratching, hissing self than feeling exposed. Goddammit. All last night that trickster was eavesdropping on my verbal diarrhea freak-out about this class, acting all chivalrous, feeding me dinner and pulling out my chair, leaving me to sleep alone in his bed and preserve my dignity. And it was all a ruse. Anger churns my stomach. Embarrassment heats my cheeks. That asshole. That tall, sandy-haired, smirking, flannel-wearing, asshole lumberjack son of a bitch. “Oh, it’s war now, Bergman. It’s war.”
