“Doing both of us a favor. Whatever we got between us, it’s infected. We’re making each other worse the longer we let it fester.”
Jesus. I hadn’t expected him to describe our romance as a brittle, dying rose or anything, but what a disgusting metaphor. “So by being a d**k, you’re lancing it?”
“Sure.”
I blew out a weary breath. I untangled our legs so I could roll over, leaving the bed to shut myself in the bathroom.
I stared at myself in the mirror. The liner beneath my eyes had bled tiny veins into the lines in my skin, and my brown irises looked black. I looked bruised, and wondered if I was dying from the inside out, the rot inching closer to the surface every time I saw him.
A strong, violent urge ordered me to cut all my hair off. I took the scissors out of my cabinet. I opened a
