My mind recoils at the way he spits the word, at the bitterness that stains his exhale, and I yank my hand away from his chest, like I’ve been scalded by it. “Me?” “Yes. You would hate me for it, because for whatever reason, you still care for him.” “I don’t,” I argue, saying it again when he scoffs at me. “Oh, really?” he challenges. “Then ask me.” My mind stumbles, like I’m riding too fast downhill and the speed is getting away from me. “Ask you...?” “Ask me to kill him for you.”
