Surely not.
“Hannah,” he says again.
“What?” I snap, not slowing. Annoyed that after all this time, almost two years of living on the same floor,thisis the moment he decides to speak to me.
At the sound of my voice, his stride falters. He drops back a single step, then recovers, matching my pace again.
“Uh—um. Where are you going?” he asks, uncertainly.
I don’t look at him. “Why do you care?”
I keep walking, daring him to try and stop me.
“Just tell me what you’re planning,” he urges, like he has a right to know, which hedoes not.
My anger flares hot and fast. I skid to a stop and whirl around.
The movement is so sudden, so sharp, that he doesn’t have time to react.
He barrels straight into me, or would have if I hadn’t pivoted at the last second. Instead, he goes flying past, shoulder smacking hard into the wall with a solidthud.
“What I’m planning?” I send him a glare. “Really? What I’m planning?”
My voice climbs, rising toward a shout, but I barely notice. All I can see is his stunned expression; all I can feel is my anger.
“I’m planning on finding the jerk who stood me up tonight. The one who begged me to go out with him, whopleadedwhen I said I wasn’t sure.”
My neighbor’s eyes widen. His mouth drops open like he might say something, but I don’t give him a chance.
“I’m planning,” I barrel on, “to stick my foot up his ass. To tell him he’s a coward. A loser. To say that I deserve basic decency. That I’m human, with feelings.” I thump my finger against my chest, unable to stop now that the words are pouring out.
“Do you have any idea how much effort this took?” I ask him, gesturing to myself. “Getting dressed. Getting excited. Believing that maybe this time would be different? That I wasn’t fooling myself?”
My neighbor’s eyes are wide, shocked. His gaze darts down to my dress, to the hem that hits mid-thigh.
“You, uh—you look nice,” he offers hesitantly.
Wrongthing to say.
“Ugh!” I throw my hands in the air. “That’s not the point! The point is that men suck. They pull shit like this, and us women are supposed to take it. That’s what we’re trained to do. Take the blame. Smooth it over. Be understanding. Becool.”
I step closer, rise onto my toes, and jab my finger in his face, making him flinch.
“I’m done being cool.” The words spill out faster now, and, damn, it feels good. To let it all out. To speak my mind for once without worrying how it sounds, what this stranger will think of me.
“I’m done letting men decide my worth,” I tell him. “So yeah, I’m going to find him, my ex-date. I’m going to tell him exactly what I think of him. I don’t care if it’s messy. I don’t care if I’m overly dramatic. He doesn’t get to do this and walk away.”
My chest heaves. I don’t even realize I’m shaking until I feel it, how close I am to coming apart.
That’s when my neighbor moves. Not a step forward. Not quite. His hand lifts, instinctively, like he’s about to steady me, to touch my arm, my shoulder,something.
Then he stops.
His fingers curl slowly into a fist at his side, like he’s physically forcing himself not to cross that line.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says, all calm and reasonable. “You don’t even know this guy.”
“I don’t even knowyou,” I snap, rage washing over me in a wave, my vision bleaching white, my skin hot. “Get out of my way.”
