"Yeah, I heard you."
"And?"
"And…" He spared me half a glance, before returning his eyes to the road. "Too bad."
Too bad?
This time, it wasn't funny. I turned in my seat to stare at him. "I'm serious."
"Yeah? Me, too."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you agreed to let me do it. Too late to back out now."
"I don't care what I agreed to." I lifted my chin. "It'snottoo late, and I've changed my mind."
He hit the brakes – not hard, but enough to slow us down considerably. A moment later, he was pulling off to the side of the road. He cut the engine and turned to face me. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why the change?"
"Because you've done enough already."
"Bullshit."
I rolled my eyes. "Well that's just great. Your favorite one-word response."
"It's not my favorite."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "Then what is?"
"Fuck."
I stared at him. I couldn't even tell if it was a serious answer. I muttered, "Oh, that's nice."
He said nothing, and our gazes remained locked. The visual standoff lasted practically a whole minute before he said, "Just tell me. What's wrong?"
"Withme?" I said. "Nothing. What's wrong withyou?"
"Nothing."
I gave him my snottiest smile. "Bullshit."
If he was amused, he didn't show it. "Is this about the painting?"
"No."
His eyebrows rose just a fraction. "You want me to say it again?"
"Saywhatagain? Bullshit?" I gave a bitter laugh. "No thanks."
He said nothing, and the silence stretched out. In spite of my best intentions, I started squirming in my seat. "Alright," I finally said. "Maybe I just don't want to owe you."
"You won't."
"Except I already do."
