"That was—" I stop. Breathe. Try to find words that don't make me sound insane. "That was a misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding." She laughs. The sound is sharp. "You threatened to kill my best friend because he hugged me."
"He had his hands on you."
"He's allowed to have his hands on me. He's my friend."
"No other man is allowed to touch you." The words come out harder than I intend. More possessive. More desperate. "Not him. Not anyone."
"Bruno." She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell her. Jasmine and something sweeter underneath. "Oliver is extremely hot."
My hands curl into fists.
"And extremely gay."
I freeze.
"What?"
"Gay." She says the word slowly, like I'm stupid. "He likes men. Not women. Definitely not me."
"You could have told me that before I pointed a gun at him," I say.
"You could have asked before you pointed a gun at him."
She has a point.
I hate that she has a point.
"Fine." I force the word out. "He's gay. That doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything."
"It doesn't." I lean forward in my chair. "You called him hot."
"Because he is."
"You're not allowed to call other men hot."
She stares at me. "You can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious." I hold her gaze. "If you call another man hot again, I'll kill him. I don't care if he's gay. I don't care if he's your childhood friend. I don't care if he's a fucking priest. You don't call other men hot. Not while you're married to me."
"That's insane."
"I never claimed to be sane."
She laughs again.
"You're jealous," she says. "Of my gay best friend."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're absolutely jealous."
"I'm protective."
"You're possessive."
