“No, the point is you cannot keep solving every problem with your fists.”
“I didn’t hit him.”
She turns on the first landing so quickly I almost walk straight into her. “You had your hand around his throat.”
“He could still talk, so clearly I showed growth.”
“Are you serious?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m not fucking serious. I’m trying not to lose my mind because I turned a corner and saw some prick grabbing you on the sidewalk.”
“I had it handled.”
The laugh that leaves me is short and ugly. “You were cornered on the pavement with your groceries spread across the concrete.”
“I said I had it handled.”
“And I am asking who he was.”
She turns and keeps climbing.
“Damien.”
The name drops between us and rolls down the stairs.
“Damien,” I repeat.
My hand tightens around the grocery bag until the torn corner gives another inch. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
“It means he’s nobody.”
“A nobody had his hand on your arm.”
She stops again and looks back at me over her shoulder with an expression that is tired, honest, and something else I can’t quite name. “He is someone I made the mistake of dating.”
Everything in me goes still.
She sees it and her eyes narrow. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Your face said enough.”
My voice drops before I can stop it. “Did he ever hurt you?”
“Not like you are thinking,” she says.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it smaller because you think I can’t handle hearing it.”
She turns back to me fully.
There she is again, angry, tired and beautiful in the worst possible way. The way that makes my chest ache at exactly the moment I need my head clear and my chest to mind its own business.
“Maybe I am making it smaller,” she says, “because I don’t want another man deciding what my hurt is supposed to look like.”
