"Keep going."
"I went to the parking lot where his car was. I had my keys in my hand. I was furious and humiliated, and he'd spent twenty minutes making me sound unreasonable for being hurt." My throat tightened. "So I slashed his tires."
The words sat between us, ugly and small and completely mine.
"I didn't plan it," I said. "That doesn't make it fine. I didn't hurt him. I didn't threaten him. I damaged the tires, and he pressed charges, and I ended up with Nadine and community service. That's why I'm here. Not because I'm dangerous in some mysterious way. Because I was angry and stupid and I chose the worst possible object lesson in not letting a man make me feel small."
Zane looked at me for a long time.
Too long.
My fingers folded around each other, tight enough to ache.
"I should've told you before," I said. "Before the lake. Before today. I'm sorry I didn't."
Outside, the sprinkler ticked and ticked.
Zane looked down at the note once more, then set it carefully on the workbench.
"You slashed his tires," he said.
"Yes."
"All of them?"
My face burned so hot I could've warmed the shed through winter.
"Two."
Zane's mouth moved.
I stared at him. "Are you trying not to smile?"
"No."
"You are."
"I'm trying to be appropriate."
"This is a confession."
"I know."
"You can't smile during a confession."
His mouth curved despite him. Not big. Not cruel. Just a rough, unwilling almost-smile that broke something tight in my chest.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, you're not."
"No," he said, and this time the warmth in his eyes hurt worse than judgment. "I'm not."
A laugh escaped me, shaky and too close to tears. "Zane."
He stepped closer then. Slowly enough that I could move away.
I didn't.
