“You fuckin’ ass.” I roared. “Don’t bother coming by tomorrow! I will not be punished by some conceited little twenty-two year old bastard! Get out!”
There was a faint snicker on his face, and for one brief instant I was totally sober, staring him eye to eye, thinking that something meaningful was happening between us—but then all that blurred.
“Hey, I wear out my welcome, I’m gone,” he said. “You know your problem, Andie Sommerville, you can’t get close to any guy. You’re scared shitless of commitment and getting vulnerable. You don’t want anyone close enough to you to get jealous.” He shook his head. “Well, you don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
That was the last I heard from Ronny Harper for almost ten days.
I hate admitting that I was miserable without the lout. I can’t
