He’s drunk.
Really drunk.
“You made a scene tonight,” he says.
My mouth falls open. “I made a scene?”
He leans closer, and I instinctively lean back. “You stood there looking wounded so my father could play hero.”
I feel the floor tilt a little under me.
“You made it weird,” he continues in that accusatory tone.
A laugh almost comes out of me, but it dies somewhere in my throat.
“I made it weird?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” I say. “I really don’t.”
He exhales hard, impatient now. “You had to stand there looking like that.”
I stare at the door.
Looking like what? Humiliated? Cornered? Fat?
My mouth goes dry. “I said leave.”
“No,” he says.
“Are you insane?”
“Don’t.” He points at me, unsteady but rough enough to make me flinch. “Don’t take that voice with me. Like you’re innocent. Like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”
I can hear my own breathing now.
“I’m closing the door.” I start to push it shut.
His hand shoots out, and the door slams back against the stopper with a crack that makes me jump.
“Ethan—”
He grabs my wrist.
Hard.
Panic flashes through me so quickly it feels electric.
“What are you doing?” I yank against him, but he’s stronger than I remember and drunk enough not to care. “Let go of me.”
“Do you know how I looked tonight?” he says, voice low and ugly. “In front of everyone?”
“I don’t care how you looked.” My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it. “You need to let go of me right now.”
He steps into the room.
I back up automatically, and that’s when the real fear hits. Not just because he’s here. Because I’m suddenly aware of how aloneI am. Of the baby. Of how badly this could go before anyone heard me.
