After breakfast, things started winding down in that awkward domestic way I never quite liked. Camila quietly stood up from the table, carrying her plate to the sink like a good girl. Then, without saying much—no glance, no snide comment—she padded back upstairs to her room. Still wearing my shirt.
My eyes followed her the whole way, heart drumming slow and heavy.
Greg kissed Camila’s mom on the cheek, murmured something about having “something to take care of,” and slipped out of the house like he wasn’t irritated as hell by me. I didn't miss the way his jaw clenched when he looked back at me on his way out. Whatever.
I waited until I heard the front door click shut before I stood up and made my way into the kitchen. I wasn’t particularly thirsty, but I needed something cold. Something
