And yet, every step I take, his scent dogs my heels. I want to scrub it out of my nose. I reach for the door handle, and his hand is there, blocking me. He’s crowding me, his chest pressed to my back, his breath on my neck. “Keys,” he says. They’re in my backpack. I don’t want to hand them over. I want him to die and fall in a deep hole and go flying out the other side of the world. I want someone to ruin everything he worked for. I want him to have to ask permission and sneak around and hustle for every penny because he doesn’t have a choice.
