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He’s watching me with a look I can’t place. “You don’t have to…mutilate yourself like some kind of mart?—”
A horrible laugh bursts out of me. “Mutilate?” I roll my eyes. “Come on, don’t be dramatic.”
“You’re the one carving up your skin!”
“That’s not?—”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” he throws back.
I stare at him. “You should just go,” I say tiredly. “You don’t get it.” No one fucking does.
His eyes bug and he looks around. “Are you fucking serious?”
“You’re overreacting,” I tell him flatly, and a choked laugh fills the room.
“I’m overreacting?” He nods. Huffs through his nose. “Right.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I snarl.
He gestures at my chest, where I hold my injured arm.
“Wow,” I say flatly.
His jaw works, and he shrugs.
“You have no fucking idea.”
“Explain it then.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“I’ll wait.”
Gritting my teeth, I look away. Pushy asshole.
Well, sucks for him, because I don’t break easily. I’ve had years of practice.
He starts humming the Jeopardy song.
Seriously?
Slowly, slowly, I turn my head, leveling him with a withering glare.
And he just quirks a brow, upping the volume.
Fuck.
I eye the door longingly, and he quickly bisects my path before I can so much as even take a step. I glance to the door to Izzy’s room next to me, and the song abruptly cuts off. “I will tackle you to the floor.”
My gaze snaps to his.
“Talk,” he enunciates slowly. A beat passes. “Or I call your parents.”
My eyes bulge. “You’re not serious.”
He digs out his phone, and waves it. “Deadly.”
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
