“Open the door.”
“Just tell me.”
I scoff. “Why? So you can kick his ass and go to jail? No thanks, Cameron. I don’t need your fists to do the talking for me.”
“They can talk for both of us,” he offers.
I stare at him, and then I have to smile a little. “You’re so fucking weak-willed,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t give in to your violent impulses.”
“And he shouldn’t put his hands on you.” He says it seriously, deeply, like it hurts him. Yeah, well, it hurts me, too. I blink back the tears that sting my eyes.
“Technically, I stabbed him first,” I say.
“He deserved it.”
I wipe my nose before it starts to run, and turn away. “Didn’t you promise ice cream?” I say, unable to look at him.
Cameron clicks the locks on his car, but neither of us gets in. I can feel him waiting for me, and I glance up.
“My house?” he asks. “We’ve got ice cream there. Even the kind with all sorts of weird shit in it, like gummy worms.”
“I hate gummy worms.”
“We also have chocolate.”
I bite on my lip, trying to keep from smiling. I don’t have to go with him. I could have him take me home.
But I don’t want to be there right now. I’m still pissed at my father.
“I’ll eat the weird shit,” I say to Cameron, and open his car door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cameron’s parents aren’t homeyet, so we sit at the kitchen table with a container of ice cream between us. We don’t bother with the bowls.
“I meant what I said earlier,” I tell him, gliding the cold spoon over my tongue. “I don’t want you fighting for me. You have enough trouble.”
“Fine,” he says.
I stare at him. “Just ‘fine’? You’re not going to argue? You always argue.”
He groans. “You either want me to fight or you don’t.” He takes a big scoop of ice cream and puts it in his mouth.
“From now on,” I say, “we don’t punch through our problems. Deal?”
His dark brown eyes settle on mine, and there’s a hint of worry there. Stubbornness. But he lifts his spoon out like he’s waiting for us to cheers on it. I clank my spoon against his, and we continue eating.
Cameron pauses, looking me over. “You should definitely stay here tonight,” he says again.
“I can’t stay here.”
“Why not? It’s not a park bench.”
“What about your parents?” I ask.
“They’d be cool with it. It’s not like we’re getting it on or anything. We’re friends. Friends can have sleepovers.”
“You’re an idiot.”
