He pauses at the door. “You want my advice? Either cut her loose or marry her. This in-between bullshit is gonna get someone killed. Probably her.”
I stare at the door after Taras leaves. His words hang in the air, along with the smoke from his cigarettes.
The messed-up pens laugh at me. But I won’t fix them. I won’t prove him right about my need for control. Matter of fact? f**k it. I grab all three pens and throw them in the trash.
There. No pens, no problem. No compulsive need to arrange them. I’m perfectly capable of functioning without—
But my hand is already reaching for the drawer where I keep spares.
No.
I pull my hand back. Drum my fingers on the empty desk. The bare wood looks wrong without the pens. Naked. Vulnerable. Like I felt last week when Mikayla pressed against me
