Page 165 of Make Me Mean It

I scoff, but the sound comes out brittle. “What, because I’m not just blindly following you anymore?”

“That’s not—” Marcus cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

He turns away from me and starts grabbing at the clothes again, movements sharper now, like if he can’t take his frustration out on me, he’ll take it out on whatever’s within reach.

Fine.

Whatever.

As long as he stops looking at me.

Then his hand reaches toward the bed, and my stomach drops.

There’s a piece of dark green fabric half buried beneath the white bedding, just enough of it showing to make every muscle in my body lock up.

Fuck.

“Don’t—”

I move forward, but I’m too late.

Marcus grabs it and yanks.

Theo’s jersey unfurls between his hands.

The black fabric drops open, the lettering across the back unmistakable, and suddenly there’s no fucking air left in the room.

I stop dead.

Marcus does too.

His eyes drag slowly over the jersey before snapping up to mine.

The disbelief comes first before something darker settles behind it.

“What the fuck are you doing with Theo’s fucking jersey?”

His voice has dropped low enough that a warning prickles across my skin.

I reach for it. “I can explain.”

Marcus jerks his arm back, holding it out of my reach, his jaw clenching.

“If that explanation has anything to do with you being in his fucking bed—”

He stops.

A rough sound tears out of him as he looks between me and the jersey, like he can’t even bring himself to finish the thought. Then he throws it at me.

The fabric hits my chest and I catch it automatically, my fogers curling into it.

Because I know exactly how it ended up here. I Remember the stupid warmth in my chest when I realised his name was stretched across my back.

I can’t look at Marcus.

My arms fold around my middle instead, Theo’s jersey trapped between them, and I curl into myself, gripping the fabric so tightly my knuckles ache.

The laundry basket goes flying.