"Hmm. I like makeup. I feel pretty with makeup." "You look pretty without it, too." She snorted, not taking compliments from me. I wondered if she knew I meant every word. "What about you?" she asked. "What do you like?" "I like you." She blushed, then said, "Do you sleep around a lot?" I paused. "Do you really want to know?" She looked at me directly. "I guess I know." I was surprised how much that hurt coming from her. "It didn't mean anything to me," I said. "And I feel like shit talking about it to you." "Why?" she asked. "Because it's... you." And since I had a feeling she'd ask me more about myself that I wasn't ready to answer, I asked, "Why do you have a bruise on your face?" I tried to soften my voice, hiding the anger I was feeling inside. I hadn't felt the same anger I did when I was a child—but it came trickling back now. Hot and sharp. The wanting to destroy something out of helpless wrath. I'd seen her bruise earlier when she got up from the bleachers. I knew she was confrontational. Was she in an argument and someone had hit her? She sniffed. "I thought I hid it pretty well with makeup." "You did," I answered calmly. "But I think you wiped it off when you were sleeping." "A patient got confused and hit me." She was whispering, and so was I. "Does that happen a lot?" "It does. I've heard stories from co-workers, but it was my first time." She exhaled softly, her hand on her lap curling. I wanted to hold it. No, I wanted to do more than hold her hand. Slowly, I turned toward her. It was getting dark now, the lampposts in the parking lot were on and only a couple of cars were scattered in the huge parking lot. The car felt like our own little world. Her eyes looked vulnerable. I held her face with both my hands, my thumb stroking her lip. I wanted to kiss it, taste it. But I leaned closer, kissed her bruise instead. I felt her body soften, leaned more toward me. I want to take care of you. There was a hunger I felt for her inside me. It was always there, so strong I'd never felt it with anyone else before. But it felt like I was taking advantage of her vulnerability if I kissed her now. "I'll drive," I said. Damn, my voice sounded rough. I'd drive her to her place, park her car and walk home. "No. I got it." She pulled away from me, ran a hand on her hair. "I just needed a... moment. Thanks," she said softly. "Cameron." That was the first time she said my name. It felt... good coming from her lips. Would it be all right to reach for her hand right now? I'd never wanted to hold anyone's hand before. I wondered how her hands would look in mine. They looked dainty. Mine would swallow hers whole. "I got you a drink," she said. What did it mean, I thought, when my heart jumped in my chest at what she said? When warmth was sneaking in like a thief? "I got it because I didn't want to give you a dollar," she added. "Where is it?" "At home." She laughed. "Just kidding. In my bag." She grabbed her bag, zipped it open, reached inside. There was something so soft and sweet about her when she was like this. I must've stared at her longer than usual because she nudged me with a can of pop. It was Ginger Ale. I cleared my throat. "Thanks," I said. "You're welcome," she said, starting the car. She threw me a smile—a genuine one. I thought there was affection in the way she looked at me. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe, but I was keeping it. She didn't turn the radio on this time. She'd opened her window a little wider, letting the wind inside the car. I noticed she liked doing that while she drove. We were quiet, but it was comfortable. It surprised me. I never had a comfortable moment with a girl before. Not like this. There was usually an expectation when I was with a girl—to be met between the sheets. I never wanted anything else after that. I could see how empty, how shallow all of it was sitting beside her. I raked my hands in my hair, feeling uneasy. But when she threw me another look, another smile, every thought in my head quieted down. And... I relaxed. She slowed down when she reached my street. When she laughed softly, I turned to look at her. I'd been trying not to look at her all throughout the drive—just in case it freaked her out. We'd reached some sort of truce tonight, and I didn't want to ruin it. "What's funny?" I asked. "You're right. I owe you a shirt and pants. You made me very mad at—" The rest of her words didn't register when I saw the black Ferrari as we pulled up to my driveway. All the blood drained from my face. My hands felt cold, clammy. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Nothing." My hands turned into fists to prevent them from shaking. "Go. I don't need you anymore." She laughed. There was a big ball of dread in the pit of my stomach. "Stop joking around. I already thanked you for tonight. Don't worry. We'll go shopping and I'll get you a shirt and—" "Leave," I whispered. She looked at me, confused, then her eyes turned to the car in my driveway, then back at me again. It took everything I had to lift myself out of that car. She opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. "Leave!" I said it more forcefully. I slammed the door closed, walked to my driveway. My heart was beating like a drum in my chest. She hadn't moved. I heard the car running and felt her eyes throwing daggers at my back. And then I heard her tires peel, the car zooming away. I turned, watching her car disappear. I knew it would end, knew it would come to this. I just never knew it would be this early. I thought we had time. I was wrong. I clenched my fists, trying to tamp down my anger and faced my house. Time to confront reality.