Even though I’m still in shock at the news, I realize that something is wrong with Manon. He didn’t say a word the whole way. Worse, I noticed that he squeezed the steering wheel so that his knuckles were white. Arrived at the apartment, he sped to his room and closed the door.
Since then, I’ve been in the living room, watching for the moment when he’ll come out. I think a little discussion is in order. He accuses me of running away, but that’s exactly what he does. When he finally comes out of his den, he has changed. He’s wearing sports shorts, a T-shirt, and he’s slipped on his sneakers. The cap is back.
I don’t give him a second:
“Can I know what’s wrong?”
He gives me his bored look that I was used to a few weeks ago.
“Nothing.”
His answer infuriates me. I can’t count the number
