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Saliva begins to pool in my mouth. “I’m going to be sick.” This is why I’m not supposed to drink. Mama’s right. Satan does live at the bottom of a bottle of booze.
“No, she’s not,” he agrees. “But she is a girl, pining for some spineless dickhead who dumped her and is never coming back. Insecure, stupid little girls don’t attract me, Belinda. You know that.” My cheeks burn with hurt and confusion. He just finished telling me that I was a smart woman, and I lapped it up. Now I’m an insecure, stupid little girl?
I don’t think he can either, because first surprise, then alarm flashes in his eyes. Yes, I basically just admitted to listening in on his conversation with Belinda. His mouth opens, then closes several times as he hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Sometimes I’m forced to say things I don’t mean.” Flutters explode in my stomach. Does that mean it was a lie? “So you don’t think I’m an insecure, stupid little girl?”
“Don’t you mean to ask if I’m still the silly farm girl pining over a spineless dickhead?” He flinches, and it makes me feel good. Maybe he regrets his unsympathetic words.