And shame, creeping in around the edges, that I stooped to such petty tactics.
Or at least, I thought I was.
Vince returns a few minutes later, his expression unreadable. “Car’s outside,” he says curtly. “Let’s go.”
I follow him silently, feeling smaller with each step. The vengeful satisfaction I felt earlier has curdled into shame. I’m not this person—this manipulative, jealous woman playing games with nude Polaroids.
In the car, Vince sits across from me. Neither of us speaks as we pull away from the curb, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, I speak. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, exactly?” His voice is cold. “For slipping a nude photo into my pocket? For deliberately sabotaging my dinner? Or simply for getting caught doing it?
