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“From now on, I’ll have a say in it.”
“In…what?”
“The curfew. Answering your damn phone. Not getting on the back of a fucking kid’s bike.”
“You…can’t. You’re not my dad.”
“No, but I am your husband.”
“On paper, remember? No touching, remember? It’ll be all over when I’m twenty-one. Do you remember all of those? Because I do. And this marriage means nothing.”
There’s a tic in his jaw. It’s small and barely-there, but I notice it because I notice everything about him. It’s my only superpower.
“It means nothing, huh?” He draws out the words, speaking slowly, but it’s downright menacing.
“Yeah, nothing.”
“Is that why you pulled up your skirt and hopped on the back of a bike with a kid? Because it means nothing?”
“Chris is not a kid, okay? And he can drive that Harley like nobody’s business. That’s what it’s called, by the way, a Harley, not some normal bike.”
“And why did you get on that not-some-normal bike?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “None of your business.”
“Watch your fucking tone. Don’t go on the defensive in front of me or I promise it’ll end ugly—for you, not me. So drop the attitude and your fucking arms.”
I don’t want to, I really don’t, but my arms seem to have a mind of their own as they fall limply to my sides.
“I don’t see why you should care who gives me a ride or who I spend my time with.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
The question catches me off guard, or the tone does. It’s calm but with a deep, nefarious undertone that makes me curl my toes in my white sneakers.
“What if he is?” I feign nonchalance.
“Answer the question. Is he?”
“I’m not allowed to have one? I’m twenty, you know, and that means I have crushes, boyfriends, and urges. It means I go out and ride motorcycles and do whatever the hell I wish.”
“What type of urges?”
“Huh?”
“You said you have crushes, boyfriends, and urges. What are the urges?”
Shit. Of course he’d focus on that part of my word vomit. I should backpedal, pretend it means nothing, but I’m feeling extra ballsy. I feel like being extra bad.
Maybe it’ll hurt worse afterward, but I don’t care. The pain is worth it sometimes.
“Sexual urges,” I whisper in a breathy voice that surprises me.
Apparently, it surprises Nate, too, or maybe my words do, because he goes so tight, I think he’s going to auto-combust or something.
Even his voice is as stiff as the rest of him. “Sexual urges like what?”
“You know.”
