So he does.
“Stay away from Isa.”
That lands, not because it surprises me, but because now it’s been said out loud.
Travers takes one step closer.
“And what exactly makes that your concern?” I ask.
His nostrils flare.
His taped fist tightens.
“What makes it my concern is watching you chase two girls like you think nobody can see it.”
There it is.
That’s the line.
That’s the one that gets me.
Not because it’s crude.
Because it’s accurate enough to sting and disrespectful enough to make my hand ball at my side.
I step closer.
Now we’re chest to chest.
I can smell rain-damp cotton and whatever soap he uses and the kind of pure blunt-force masculinity men like him carry around like a weapon.
“So what do you care what my love life looks like?” I ask.
I keep my voice low.
That’s what makes it more dangerous.
If I raise it, somebody steps in.
If I don’t, this stays ours for one more second.
He leans in too.
“Because she thinks you’re picking her,” he says. “And you’re not.”
That gets all the way in.
Actually gets in.
My jaw locks so hard it hurts.
Because Isa does think that.
Or at least she did.
And because some part of me hates hearing it from him more than I would’ve hated hearing it from Stella.
Because Travers says it like accusation and certainty and possession all at once.
