The words hit like a punch.
I deserve it.
"I know." I hold her gaze. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't respond.
"I shouldn't have done that," I continue. "I shouldn't have grabbed you. I shouldn't have demanded answers. I shouldn't have—" I stop. Swallow. "I was out of line."
"Yes." Her voice is flat. "You were."
"It won't happen again."
"You're right." She takes a step closer. "It won't. Because if it does, I meant what I said. I will hit you."
"I know."
"Good."
We stand there. Three feet apart. The kitchen suddenly feels very small.
"Why did you do it?" she asks.
I know what she's asking. Why did I react like that? Why did I lose control over a pair of sweatpants?
The truth is too big. Too dangerous.
Because the thought of another man touching you makes me want to burn the world down.
Because I've been wanting you for two years and the idea that someone else got close enough to leave clothes in your apartment made me insane.
Because I'm in love with you and I have been since the moment you slapped me across the face in Chicago.
I can't say any of that.
So I say something else instead.
"I don't know."
It's a lie.
She knows it's a lie.
Marina
It's a lie.
He knows it's a lie.
I know it's a lie.
And something inside me snaps.
"Sit down."
I point at the kitchen chair. The one I dragged in here weeks ago because I liked eating breakfast by the window.
Dante raises an eyebrow.
