I hated him.
More than that, I hated myself.
As usual, he made no attempt at conversation. And for once, neither did I.
When we pulled into his garage, I slammed out of his car and stalked straight up to the pink nightmare that was my room, where I spent the next hour crying into my pillow, nice and quiet so he wouldn't hear.
And why?
It was because I refused to give him the satisfaction.
But one thing was for damned sure. Iwasn'tgoing to make such a mistake again. And tomorrow, when I recovered my composure, we were going to have a little talk.
A few hours later, I found myself sitting in the upstairs hallway outside Flynn's bedroom door.
I hadn't slept. I hadn't even tried. Instead, I'd spent the nighttime hours getting my stuff ready and replayingnotthe scene from last night, but rather a different scene, one from ten years earlier, when I'd shown even sorrier judgment than I'd shown in Flynn's back seat.
