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“I’m old enough to make my own choices,” I say, barely able to control my voice.
“Yeah, but the choices you’ve made all the time were to keep you safe. Getting married is just reckless. You’re making a mistake.”
I fucking hate being told I’m wrong.
“You don’t get to tell me how to live my life,” I snap.
“I’m not telling you how to live your life, Blake. I’m just saying, try easing into this thing with Rachel. You can have a relationship with her and not push her away without getting married to her on the spot.”
“It’s what I want!” I cry out.
“God, what’s going on with you?” Emma asks. “You’re like a child having a tantrum.”
I don’t know why that pushes me over the edge, but I see white. The anger has taken control. Damn it, this is what I’m afraid of.
“Get out,” I say through a clenched jaw.
“Excuse me?”
“I said get the fuckout.”
My anger vibrates under my skin.
“No,” Emma says and crosses her arms over my chest. “You don’t get to talk me to like that.”
“You work for me,” I challenge her. “Get the hell out of my apartment. Out of my life!”
“You’re not going to push me away the way you push everyone else away, Blake. I haven’t left in ten years, and I’m not leaving now.
“Get the fuck out!” I shout at Emma, hovering over her. She’s almost against the wall. I can’t see clearly anymore; I can’t think clearly. I want to punch something.
But not her. I can’t hurt her. I won’t do that.
I lift my fist and slam it into the wall next to her head. I hit the wall so hard, pain shoots up my arm to my elbow and my knuckles crack. Emma stares up at me. Her face is twisted into a mask of anger that matches my own.
“You know what, Blake?” she says in a calm voice. “You’re so busy fighting this shit with your dad, you don't realize it’s what you’ve become.”
“What?” I bellow.
“You’re just like him.”
I freeze, blood draining from my face. My knuckles throb wildly.
“You better get that checked out,” Emma says, glancing at my hand.
“You’re fired,” I say.
Emma shrugs and hoists her bag onto her shoulder. I watch her leave my gym. A moment later, the front door slams. I cradle my hand against my stomach and try to breathe through the warring emotions that erupt in my chest.
You’re just like him.
I sink onto the ground and lower my head onto my knees.
She’s right. I’m just like him. I can’t control my anger. I can’t stop myself from losing my shit. And over what? Emma telling me the truth? Cold hard facts?
God, I’m a dick. I can’t keep playing this game.
Madame Dorota was right.
