Did he make a bet with his fellow basketball players? With the whole team? Why did I want to cry? There were worse things that happened to me and I didn't cry then. I sure as f uck wouldn't cry now. I knew there was a possibility I was blowing this out of proportion, and my history was clouding my judgment. I turned the shower off, lifted myself out of the tub. My wet clothes dripped all over the floor. I looked up to the ceiling, prayed for patience. A wet floor was a pet peeve. Just one more thing to add to his black list. I took my clothes off, wrung them dry. Using the washing machine would be costly. I had to wash these by hand now or else they'd smell tomorrow. I was adding that to his black list too. And when I searched for a towel and remembered I didn't get my things before I jumped in the shower, the anger came back. It always did. It was only a matter of time. I shouted for Dylan to get me a towel. I wrapped myself in it and ran to my room. His sweater was on my bed. And I just saw red. I slammed open my dresser, put on panties, shirt, and jeans. Girl, what about the bra? F uck the bra. I didn't need it anyway. My hair was still wet, but I didn't care. I marched past my dad and Dylan in the living room, put on my parka, grabbed my keys, and leaped in my car. I was ready for war. *** It started to rain again just as I got into my car. Little pellets of hate from the night sky that my windshield wipers couldn't completely clear away. Just like the hot anger I felt for him. Except that mine was building into a storm. I felt hot, burning. I cranked the window open a little, letting the night air cool me down. The lights from the oncoming traffic blinded me as I put my signal on, turned right onto his street. I was hoping the drive to his house would calm me a little bit. Not a chance. My body was poised for a fight. The adrenaline rush and the anger making me blind to everything but confronting him. My breathing quickened as I spotted his house, as I pulled up to his driveway. The Ferrari was noticeably gone. I sat there for a moment, trying to convince myself to let it go. He wasn't worth it. Forget about him and move on. He certainly didn't care about me. I gripped the steering wheel, focusing on the feel of it in my hands. The squeaking sound of the wiper blades as they slid back and forth on the windshield every few seconds. The sound of the rain as it hit the roof of my car. Focusing on anything other than all the things I wanted to hurl at his face to hurt him as much as he had hurt me. Leave! His voice was strong and clear in my head. I gave myself another minute to calm down. Inhale, f ucking exhale. Inhale, f ucking exhale. F uck it. I slid out of my car and slammed the door closed. The bright beam of my headlights illuminated the door of his garage. My hands turned into fists as I marched to his front door. The porchlight came on as I rang the doorbell once. Twice. Ten times. And when it didn't open fast enough, I started banging on it with my fists. Open up, asshole. And then he did. He filled up the doorway. He stood there, looking tall and mercilessly beautiful. I was tall, but he was taller. He had to lower his head to look at me this closely. His eyes, deeply blue in the daylight, had gone dark and cold. He reminded me of a silent lion before it attacked. It felt like I was looking at a different person. I wanted to tear right into him. Leave! His voice kept banging in my head. "You f ucking asshole," I said. My voice had gone quiet and thick. "How could you?" I waited for him to say something. Anything. His lack of response cut me more than his words could. "Aren't you going to say anything to me?" Nothing. The man who said he liked me was gone. His mouth looked hard. His masculine face had no softness or compunction on what happened just a couple of hours ago. Filled with hate, I drilled a finger into his chest. "How dare you! What right do you have to play with my feelings? Or anyone's? Do you think it's okay to make me like you and when you get bored of me you can just throw me away? F uck you!" And still there was no emotion on his face. It made me angrier, spurned me on. "You think you're someone special?" I snarled. "You're not. You're not the first asshole who tried to pull this crap to this girl. There's one of you in every f ucking corner of every f ucking street. Did you make a bet with your teammates to get me to like you? Have fun with the f ucking virgin, get you some dough while you're at it. How much was it, huh? Was it enough to pay for your gas money?" Something flickered in his eyes, but he hid it so quickly I wasn't sure if it really happened. "Was that your girlfriend coming to visit you? She caught you, didn't she? You motherf ucker. You deserve to be alone." I raised my chin, daring him to respond. "You deserve to be with girls like you who don't give two shits about you. I don't give a f uck about your bike, I don't give a f uck about your shit, and I don't give a f uck about you." I spun around, dismissing him. I took a step, two, and then stopped. I clenched my hands into fists. I wanted to punch him, make him feel something. Get a damned response out of him. I turned to face him again. He hadn't moved. His face was the same impenetrable wall that screamed at me how much he didn't care. "You're just like everybody else," I said softly. With finality. If he had something to say, I didn't wait for it. I ran to my car. My lungs felt full, my heart beating fast like a drum. I could feel the blood pounding in my head. I closed my eyes and hung my head, trying to calm myself. I said what I came here to say. That was all I wanted. Right? So why did I feel... empty? Incomplete. Something was missing and unfulfilled. After a few seconds, I looked up. He was gone. My throat tightened. I felt my body tense as I stared at his closed door. I was waiting. Waiting. For what? Waiting for what? And then his porchlight flicked off. I got my answer. The anger I was nursing inside fell away. Just fell away. But what replaced it was worse.