“Are you sure?” He had that tone, and I didn’t like the familiarity of it. Like he was sure I was his girl, and I didn’t like anyone making me “his girl.” I had my own obligations, thanks.
“Listen,” I said, putting the brush in the bucket. “I’m making some progress here, cleaning this up.”
“You’re really not,” he said.
I twisted and glared at him. “Yes, I am.”
“You don’t need to be doing this anymore.”
“Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” I stood up and faced him.
“I’m not your boss, and I’m not pretending to me. I’m coming to you as a friend. Your hands are red. I doubt you can feel your fingers anymore.
“So? I have to clean this up!”
“Hey, I’m not saying you can’t. You need, however, to take a break. Stop fighting all the time!”
“I have to fight. It’s my job to fight!”
“Your job to fight?”
“To fight for this. For my mother! I have to do this, it’s my fault!”
“What is your fault? What are you talking about?” Shaun asked. “You didn’t cause this!”
I opened my mouth to speak, but I was cut off.
“Winter, come inside and have some tea.” My mother’s soothing voice cut through the anger and pulled me away.
I glanced back at her. “Yes, Mom.”
Shaun turned and walked away.
And for a moment, I wondered if he’d be back. If my fight was too much for him.
If it was, well, then so be it.
I wasn’t an easy woman to deal with.
Ask anyone.
I glanced at the graffiti still on the sidewalk—poorly painted curse words that looked the same as they had two hours ago.
Which made me grind my teeth, because damn it, he was right.
Again.
Fuck.
I came inside, the warmth of the salon hit me hard, and I didn’t realize how accustom to the cold I’d become.
“Here,” Mom said, and handed me a cup of chamomile tea. “Have a seat.”
I sipped on the tea and sat down. “This is good,” I said, sighing. I clenched the cup, the tea’s warmth soothing my fingers.
“Winter, I heard you say something out there,” Mom said as she sipped on her tea.
I blinked. “So?”
