By early afternoon, I was desperate for any kind of normal interaction. I finally found him in the garage, completely focused on fixing his bike, an act that I recognized as a way to avoid dealing with everything else.
“Maddox,” I called softly, approaching him as if he were a frightened animal. “Can we talk?”
“Busy,” he replied, still not looking up, his hands skillfully working on the bike despite the bandages wrapped around his knuckles.
“It’ll just take a minute—”
“I said I’m busy, Alina.” His tone was icy.
“About last night—”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He straightened abruptly, finally looking at me, and the emptiness in his eyes was worse than anger would have been. “You were being kind to a drunk i***t. I was being a drunk i***t. End of story.”
“That’s not—”
“Drop it.”
