And the worst part?
He won’t even let me drink.
“Sabrina,” he murmurs, frowning when I take a red solo cup from a cocktail table. “You don’t know what’s in that.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I'm not saying you are,” he says calmly. “I just won’t watch you drink something random.”
He takes the cup and throws it out.
In front of everyone.
My humiliation burns through my veins.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
"If he wants to be an ass, let him be an ass," I tell my red faced reflection. Maybe it's one of those things when people connect so intensely over the phone and the connection fizzles out in person.
I vow to avoid him for the rest of the night, choosing to hang out with Molly and Sam instead, but within minutes I find myself back at his side.
"I'd like to leave." I say suddenly. "Take me home Jordan."
He walks beside me to the car, still keeping that same respectful distance and I seethe.
How could he be so cool and collected, at a party where there's license to sin. And after four weeks apart. He clearly didn't miss me.
He opens my door like always. I slide in, stiff with things I don’t know how to say. He starts the engine. The mansion fades behind us, music thudding distantly.
The silence in the car becomes unbearable.
After a full minute, he asks, carefully, “Do you really want me to take you home, Bree?”
“No.” I snap
He doesn’t argue. Another block passes before he speaks again, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Sabrina.”
There it is. That tone. Steady. Patient. Like he already knows the truth and is giving me time to catch up.
“I said nothing!” I snap.
He exhales roughly, then signals and turns down a quieter road.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Not taking you home,” he replies.
My chest tightens. “Yeah, but where are you going?”
“Somewhere we can talk.”
I cross my arms and stare out the window. “You obviously didn't want to be at the party.”
“That’s not true.”
