"I wasn't finished. I'm not asking you to forgive me. You've made it pretty clear tonight that that's not on the table."
I press my lips together, swallowing the defensiveness that keeps trying to claw its way out. With the echo of Atticus's words from earlier still rattling in my skull, I'm surprised I still have any rage left to throw at him.
Like,fuck…am I even any better than him?
Letting my fury get the best of me like that? Doing something that could've completely fucked us? Fuckedthem?
Getting even with Atticus isn't worth ruining their best opportunity to set things straight.
But I wasn't thinking. I just acted.
And now I'm not sure who I'm more angry at…
Himfor lying to me and being able to rile me like no man ever has before.
Or myself, for giving in to my own rage and letting him have this effect on me.
"It won't happen again," I mutter when he opens his mouth to say something else I know I can't stand to hear. He's said enough.
His brows draw together.
"Could I come in for a second? Someone should check your arm."
"I told you, it's fine."
He doesn't budge, and my throat burns.
I want the adrenaline back. I don't want to feel whatever this emotion is. He's the one who should hurt. Not me.
I recall the look on his face when he turned around at the sound of my voice up on the bypass, searching for me. How his footing was unstable, and there was a mix of horror and hope in his eyes. I remember his fist twisted in the front of his shirt. He looked hurt. Terrified.Buthe also looked like someone I could trust once, and I was wrong.
"I won't say a thing." His tone is soft now, and it's worse. Fuck, it's so much worse. "Let me help you bandage it, and then I'll go. I swear."
"Because you're such a man of your word," I snap before I can control myself.
God, why does he makeme like this?
I turn for the door, digging my keys from my pocket with numb, trembling fingers. My body is heavy and cold as I shoulder through, and Ellie immediately darts out, pushing her wet nose into my legs with a whine. Sensing my distress.
I'm too spent to argue with Atticus anymore as he follows me inside, greeting Ellie, reassuring her everything is okay, like I should be doing.
I sit on the couch, wondering how long before I stop feeling like a human Popsicle.
Behind me, somewhere in the bathroom, Atticus rifles through the vanity for the first aid kit he stored there when he set this place up.
True to his word for once, when he comes into the living room with Ellie on his heels, he doesn't speak. Atticus bends to his knees in front of the couch where I sit and sets the white box beside himself.
Wordlessly, he reaches for my jacket, and I shrug out of it, doing most of the work to take it off to avoid him needing to touch me any more than necessary.
The sting intensifies as the shredded material brushes over the wound. The blood has dried up a bit, and some fibers from the jacket stick to it like glue.
When his fingers brush over my icy skin, he recoils and clears his throat, rising to get something from the bedroom.
He drapes the throw blanket around my shoulder, and I take the edge of it from him before he can continue to wrap the excess around my torso.
I didn't ask him to get me a blanket. I didn't even ask him to help me dress this wound.
God, I wish he would justgo.
