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“Oh my God, anyone with brains could best that fucker,” he says.
I stiffen, straightening my spine and squaring off with him.
“Keaton, I didn’t mean—”
“I guess your dad had it right all along, huh? I’m just some south side trash, not good enough to think of that on my own. I needed little-rich-boy Bodhi to stroll into my life and just work his magic, making everything better. Only you didn’t,” I say, vibrating with anger.
He doesn’t respond. Only stands there and stares. On some level, I want him to yell. To fight this out and prove I’m right. But I know it’s only that anger talking and that it would do no good in the long run. So, I concede.
“I’m leaving. Give me your keys,” I say, placing my hand out to him.
“I’ll drive you,” he says, but I shake my head.
“No, I don’t want to be near you. I’m done, this is over, and I’m leaving,” I say again, shaking my open palm, waiting for him to deposit the keys into it.
“So what? You’re just going to take my car?” he says, a shadow of annoyance blanketing his face.
“Yes, I’m sure you can find a ride home,” I quip, growing more frustrated by the second.
“And if I say no?” he asks, brashly.
I clench my jaw to keep myself from saying what I really want to and close the space between us with two long strides. He thinks he’s won. I can see it in his eyes. But when I reach forward and shove my hand into the pocket of his slacks, retrieving the keys and turning away, I just make out the fall of his expression before I’m walking around the hood of the car.
“Seriously?” he calls out behind me.
“Yeah, don’t like it? Feel free to call the cops and report it. It seems you’re good at that,” I say, and then sink down into the driver's seat before pulling away, refusing to watch him in the rearview as I leave.
Chapter 58
I stand there with my hands on my head, watching her drive away yet again. It seems to be a running theme, and I’m over it. I knew I’d fucked up, but if I’d been able to tell her on my own terms, rather than having it dumped in the middle of one insult after another, she may not be running off with my car right now.
I’m not worried about my car. I know she’s just pissed and probably going back to my house to get her Camaro. But even if she did take my car, it’s not like I’d be mad or anything. She could literally take anything of mine, and I wouldn’t care.
Somewhere along the line, I started seeing a future with Keaton. With that vision came the acceptance that we would start working together on building said future. What’s mine would be hers and vice versa. For all I cared, she could have the car. If we were going to be together, it would be just as much hers as mine, anyway.
Was I in over my head? Maybe. But things were going in the right direction before my piece of shit dad decided to torch my entire fucking relationship with zero care in the world.
Turning around, I storm back up the steps and inside the house. My mom is sitting silently at the dinner table, clearly upset, but as per usual, she’s remained silent.
My dad, on the other hand, is seated at the head of the table, napkin draped over one knee, cutting his meal into small, bite-sized pieces.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I seethe. I have half a mind to tear the tablecloth and everything on it off the table in one fell swoop. But these are my Nana’s dishes, passed down to my mom. I wouldn’t risk breaking them.
“At present? You screaming in my ear while I’m attempting to consume a meal,” he says, not lifting his eyes from his plate.
“Why would you do that?” I ask, fists clenched at my sides.
“What is it you are referring to?” he asks, unbothered by my ire. The little voice in my head reminds me that he’d have to actually give a shit about me to care about my reaction to what he’s said or done.
“Seriously? How about the way you just completely disrespected my girlfriend?” I shout. The way she had to have felt. I know it hurt her. She wouldn’t have said what she did outside had it not bothered her.
I wanted to tell her to just ignore him. He’s stupid, and she isn’t trash. To judge a person based on some classist bullshit like that is the most immature thing I’ve seen him do.
“I didn’t realize it was disrespectful to address one’s flaws,” he says, still focusing on his plate and slicing his chicken breast into tiny little pieces.
“Flaws? You just called her trash,” I say, furious that he doesn’t see this as an issue. He isn’t sorry in the slightest.
“I am aware of what I said. I don’t need you to repeat it to me,” he says, voice emotionless and level.
