He kicks the ball again, harder this time. It slams into the net with a dull thud.
“Seriously? Just fuck off,” he snaps.
I let the words hang for a second, unimpressed, then glance at the net.
“Look,” I say, keeping my voice steady, even as he ignores me. “All I need you to do is listen. Just hear me out, and then you can say whatever the hell you want, okay?”
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
“I’m sorry you found out like this. Rose had no right to tell you.”
“Well, I’m glad she did,” he replies snappily. “I would have stayed clueless otherwise, wouldn't I?”
I straighten my spine, my nose scrunching against the cold.
“We were going to tell you. Whether you believe that or not. We just thought right before Christmas wasn't exactly ideal timing.”
He lets out a sharp, mocking scoff, dragging a hand through his hair beneath his hood.
“Yeah, because there's a good time to tell me you've been screwing my dad.”
The ball comes flying at me without warning. I catch it more out of reflex from when we used to play when we were younger, my fingers stinging from the impact.
“Seriously, Willow—what the hell were you thinking?”
I inhale heavily, trying not to lose it with him because he has every right to be upset.
“I was thinking that he makes me happy.”
That earns me a disbelieving laugh—short, harsh, and edged with something meaner than I've heard from him before.
“Happy? Doubt it. If someone makes you happy, you smile at their jokes or talk about the weather, dinner, or whatever else. You don't have sex with them,” he cuts himself off with a frustrated huff. “I wouldn't put it past you, you know. Doing this just to get back at mum.”
That pisses me off more than anything, and I was going to be easy on him, but I’m not being spoken to like this.
“I love you, Riv, but shut up.”
“I’m right, aren't I?”
“You couldn't be further from the truth.”
He steps toward me, the wind hitting us more harshly now. “Did you do this to break them up? I know how much you hated them.”
“River,” I warn.
“Was my dad just another one of your meaningless hookups that stuck around longer than it should have?”
Right. That does it.
I hurl the ball at him. It smacks him square in the chest, making him stumble back.
“I swear to God, just shut up! If you spew one more load of absolute bullshit, I will personally make sure you can't procreate—and then I’ll tell Quinn you wet the bed until you were ten.”
Petty? Absolutely.
Do I care? Not even a little.
I don't even know why I was expecting an adult conversation here, because it's gone the opposite way.
