What an asshole.
Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?
I told him the truth. I put it all out there. I hated that I did, but I thought—hell, I hoped—getting that shit off my chest would help, clear the air or something. But no. Apparently, I'm just some manipulative freak for being careful with my words. For keeping parts of myself guarded. For not performing my feelings on command like I'm some fucking pet.
He really just assumed the worst of me. Like everyone else.
Why should I have to prove I care just because he's insecure? Fuck him.
The banquet tent was absurd. Big enough to host a damn wedding, the white silk walls billowed in the breeze, golden lights casting a soft glow over the place like we were in some fantasy novel. The long tables gleamed with glassware and silver cutlery, napkins folded into little swans, meat roasted to perfection and all that useless garnish fluff.
It smelled amazing, but I couldn't taste shit through the fury in my throat.
