Page 91 of Dirty Hit
Mostly, though, I feel tired; and under the tired, a thin, hot line of anger that someone who hurt me is still demanding access to me like it’s a right.
“I’m not tempted,” I say. “I don’t want to get back together. I don’t want to hold your hand, or pray with you, or pretend we’re still the people we were before you decided to blow things up. I just want to get in my car, and go home.”
“To whoever you’re screwing now,” she snaps, that bitter edge back.
I think of Dominic. I think of how he hasn’t ever asked for more than I can give, how he takes what I offer and pushes in ways that somehow make me more myself instead of less.
Screwing doesn’t even begin to cover it, but it’s the word she has, and I’m not giving her any more truth than she already got.
“Move,” I say instead, nodding toward the door. “Please.”
She laughs, but there’s something ugly in it now. “No.”
“Hannah.”
“No,” she repeats, louder this time. “I amnotdone.”
I step to the side to go around her, and she catches my arm hard enough to make me wince.
“Don’t touch me,” I say immediately, trying to pull free.
She tightens her grip instead. “You don’t get to walk away from me,” she snaps. “Not after everything I put into this.”
My pulse kicks harder. “Let go.”
“You’re being such a self-righteous asshole,” she says, nails digging through my jacket into my skin. “Do you know how humiliating this has been for me? Your mother looks at me like I failed some test, your father won’t even say my name, and now you’re standing here acting like I’m dirt because I made one mistake.”
“One mistake,” I repeat, disbelief flattening my voice.
“Yes, one mistake,” she hisses, yanking me a step closer when I try to pull away again. “And now, you’re throwing me away for some secret little fling you won’t even admit to. What, is she better because she lets you play saint while you screw her in private?”
There’s no one in the lot. No one close enough to hear this. No one close enough to step in.
“Let go of me,” I say again, louder now.
Instead of listening, she shoves me; not hard enough to knock me down, but hard enough that my lower back bumps the side of my own car. The impact isn’t painful so much as shocking.
“You don’t get to cut me off like that,” she says, stepping in again before I can move away. “You don’t get to just decide I’m disposable.”
“I’m not doing this with you,” I say, trying to get around her.
She moves with me, blocking me again. Her hand slaps flat against my chest this time, fingers bunching in my jacket. “You are doing this with me,” she snaps. “You’re going to stand here and listen for five fucking minutes.”
Something cold slides down my spine.
“Hannah,” I say a little quieter now, because that edge in her has shifted into something meaner. “Move.”
“No!” Her voice cracks on it, but the anger is only getting sharper. “You don’t get to act like the victim when you abandoned me first. You don’t get to freeze me out and make me look crazy for wanting closure.”
She shoves me again, harder. My shoulder knocks the car window and I suck in a startled breath. Then she grabs at my wrist, the one with the cuff hidden under my sleeve, and tries to yank my hand out of my pocket.
“What is that?” she demands. “Who gave you that? Are you seriously letting someone mark you now? Is that what this is?”
I jerk my hand back before she can expose the leather. “Back off.”
Her face twists. “Oh my God,” she says, and there’s something almost gleeful in the disgust now—like she’s put pieces together and loves how ugly the picture is. “There really is someone else. That’s why you won’t touch me, isn’t it? You’re fucking someone else and acting like I’m the sinner here.”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough. So she slaps me.
