She snatches her arm free and runs on.
She ’ s back at the bungalow before he ’ s even left the house.
#
When he finally gets back and shuts the door – three trips later, loaded up with armfuls of stuff each time – he barely talks to her, can barely bring himself to look at her. He keeps himself busy by putting everything away; everything in its right place.
‘ Keith ... ’ she says, his silence making her feel increasingly nervous. He doesn ’ t immediately respond and she tries again. ‘ Keith ... ’
‘ What? ’ he yells, irritated, trying to secure the door with the padlock and chain.
‘ Aren ’ t you gonna talk to me? ’
‘ What ’ s there to say? ’
‘ I ’ m sorry if I f****d up. I was just tryin ’ to —’
‘ Just trying to do what? ’ He finally stops messing and stands in the middle of the r
