“You were at his house. Your stuff is at his house. You’re always around him. He’s apparently your first love, and I said okay. I took it at face value. I trusted you,” he argues. “Even though all the evidence points to you getting back together with him.”
“No, it doesn’t. I would never,” I sputter. “You know what? I’m done. I never want to see you again.”
“You are not allowed to just break up with me.” He grabs my arm.
I throw him off, and he slams me against the wall, making the picture frames rattle.
“Uh, yeah, I can.”
“You’re mine. You belong to me.” The baritone deepens into a growl.
“Get away from me.” I struggle. He doesn’t let me up.
“You want to know what I think?” he sneers.
“Not really.”
“You like being independent because it’s a control thing. No, don’t try to argue with me. My dad was the same way.”
“Seriously? You’re comparing me to your shitty-ass father?”
“I’m just saying, I lived under his control for my entire childhood, and you need to chill out. Let other people do things for you for once.”
“I’m not overwhelmed. I can handle this,” I spit. “I’m not going to let you do things for me just because I’m helpless.”
“You’re not letting me do anything.” Fitz sounds frustrated. “I’m going to do it because I can and because I want to, because I care about you. I’m allowed to like you, and I’m allowed to think you’re pretty.”
“Bullshit. You just want to win. It’s like with the café. You just throw your money and power around to get what you want.” I shove at him. “The only reason you were interested in me at all was because I said no to you, and no one ever says no to you. You just go through life getting everything you want.”
He steps back.
“Yeah,” he says coldly. “I do. And I’m not giving you up. You’re going to be mine whether you want it or not.”
46
FITZ
“Uh-oh. I take it the proposal didn’t go well?”
“It wasn’t proposal day.” I glower.
“Probably for the best,” Whitman jokes when I angrily pull out the chair next to him and sit in it.
“Yeah, did you see that terrible selection of rings?” McCarthy ribs me.
“Nothing is wrong with the rings that I picked!” I bellow at my brothers.
“Holy shit, man,” Hawthorne says after a second.
The waitstaff coming in with the appetizers pause, apprehensive in the doorway.
“Can we have this food and drink to go?” Salinger asks the servers.
“What? No. I can’t reheat the crab pasta!” Whitman complains.
“Then eat it room temperature.”
“You need to get him under control,” Hawthorne complains to Crawford, who’s buttering his bread.
