Page 44 of Rush

“So?” His face doesn’t change. Not a trace of guilt there.

Then, what did I expect? This is him I’m talking about. I don’t think the guy has it in him to feel guilty.

“So?” I laugh again, and it still doesn’t have a trace of humor in it. “I don’t like being fodder for you and your buddy.”

“You weren’t fodder. Thompson was being a dick, and I was just trying to shut him up.”

“You did a stand-up job of that.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps. “It’s just locker-room talk. That’s what guys do. I’m not going to stand there and tell him things that will give him ammo to wind me up about later.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay then.”

“Stop being so fucking sensitive!”

“Fuck you, Kincaid. You ever think that maybe this isn’t me being sensitive? And that it’s you being an insensitive prick?” I yell back.

He pushes his hand into his hair, gripping the strands. “It was a nothing conversation, and you’re getting all bent out of shape for no reason. I didn’t bad-mouth you. I just stated facts.”

“Yeah, what was it again? ‘So, you’re really not hittin’ it?’” I say, imitating a male voice. “‘Do I look stupid to you?’ So, that’s a fact, is it? That someone would have to be stupid to be with me?”

“That’s not what I said!”

“You just said, you stated facts! And that was one of the facts that you said to Thompson this morning!”

“You’re taking it out of context.”

“I don’t think I am.”

“Jesus! See, this is why I avoid women like you—”

“Women like me?” I let out a dry laugh, cutting him off. “You mean, women with baggage. Women with substance abuse issues, right?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, and the chill in his voice is enough to refreeze the melting ice caps in the Antarctic.

I swallow hard, past the lump in my throat. “Well, you don’t need to avoid me anymore.” I grab my bag and open the door.

“Where are you going?” He sounds irritated, maybe even bored. And that makes me feel a million times worse.

God, I was so stupid to think that he would ever be my friend. He hasn’t changed one bit from the person I first met that day.

He’s just the same judgmental asshole as he was then.

“Somewhere you’re not,” I bite and clamber down out of the truck.

“You’re being stupid, Ari. It’s still six blocks to your apartment.”

I turn to face him, my hand on the door, ready to shut it. “Sounds like me, right, Mr. Perfect? Stupid with baggage a mile wide.” Then, I slam the door shut before he can say any more to hurt me, and I take off, striding away in the opposite direction from him.

NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” is blaring out of the speakers from my iPod docking station in my living room.

I should be doing yoga. Relaxing. Focusing. Clearing my mind. But I can’t.

I’ve got too much anger inside me to even attempt to do yoga.

So, I’m currently doing exercise in my living room to rid myself of the adrenaline tearing up my body, so I can relax enough to do yoga.

I could’ve gone out for a run to burn off the hot energy, but I don’t feel sure that I might not run straight into a bar right now.