“You’re staying with me or I’m staying with you. End of story.” “Why?” “Jesus, babe. We just did this. Know you hit your head, but Vic said there’s no concussion.” I stare at him, not answering. “You’re mine.” “That makes no sense.” “How the fuck does it make no sense?” And I don’t know if it’s the drama of the day or adrenaline or pain pills or that I genuinely want to get this conversation over with, but I say it. “Because . . . you hate me.” His entire body stills. “What?” “You don’t even like me,” I say, this time quieter, embarrassed. God, I feel like an idiot.
