Page 113 of Flipping the Script

“Fine.” He whirled on me, his eyes blazing with something I couldn’t read. “I was worried about you. Are you happy?That’swhy I was such a dick when you got there. Because I was fucking terrified something happened to you, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with that!”

He jumped up. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is? I’m a grown-ass man, but I still fucked up the most basic of things and needed you to come and save my ass.Iforgot to replace my spare tire.Ihit that fucking pothole because I was so busy thinking aboutyouthat I wasn’t paying attention.” He made a dismissive sound, almost like apish. “But of course, you wouldn’t know anything about being pathetic, would you? You’re always the savior, and I’m always the one who needs saving.”

I jumped up, not liking the power imbalance of having him looming over me and tried to digest everything he just said.

“Whatever,” he rushed on. “Have a laugh at pathetic, stupid Sebastian. And now you can tell everyone how I had an hour-long panic attack because I thought you were dead on the side of the road and I was stuck in my stupid car and couldn’t help you!”

He widened his eyes, like he only then realized everything he’d said.

That was a lot to process, but my brain was fixated on one line over all the others.

“You were thinking about me when you hit the pothole?”

“That’swhat you got out of all of that?” he asked incredulously.

“What do you want me to say?” I snapped, my anger coming out in a burst. “That I wasn’t worried about you? Because newsflash, jackass, I was.”

“You were?” Some of the heat was gone from his voice, but he still looked like he was seconds away from either bolting or taking a swing at me.

“Yeah, I was. I spent the entire drive worried that something had happened to you and I wouldn’t get there in time. Happy?”

“I guess?” He shook his head, like he was trying to clear his thoughts. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you’re holding back. Call me stupid. Tell me I’m an idiot or a jackass or whatever else. Get it out now because I know it’s in there.”

“It’s like you want me to be mad at you,” I accused. “Do you want me to yell at you and call you names? Will that make you feel better?”

“I don’t know!” he snapped. “I don’t know what I want. And I hate it.”

“Hate what?” I asked, trying to catch the tail of the conversation as he bounced between thoughts with no segues.

Bas wasn’t angry, not really. I’d known him long enough to see the subtle differences in his moods. Whatever was fueling this outburst went deeper than simply being pissed or even embarrassed. But it was hard to remember that when he was being a jackass and trying to goad me into fighting with him.

“This. All of this!” he burst out. “I don’t know what to do with it. The one thing in my life that’s always made sense is this.” He waved between us, his expression accusing. “But now I don’t even have that.

“I don’t like you, but you’re not awful. You annoy the fuck out of me and test my patience more than anyone ever has, but I don’t hate it. I keep trying to stay the hell away from you, but I can’t.”

The anguish behind his words was enough to break me free from some of my own anger. This was about so much more than just tonight or even the shift between us.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he rushed on. “I hate drama. I actively avoid conflict, but it’s like my common sense shuts down the second you’re around. And I’malwaysescalating things with you.” He raked one hand through his still-damp hair. “I kissed you when you brought that stuff up here. I put your dick in my mouth at Ben’s party. I met you upstairs at your parents’ and asked to fuck you. What the actual hell is wrong with me?”

“That last one isn’t on you,” I said automatically, still processing everything he’d just said. “I dared you to meet me there, and I agreed to let you fuck me.”

He rolled his eyes. “So two out of three are my fault. Awesomesauce.”

“Awesomesauce? I haven’t heard you say that in years.”

“It’s been a weird day,” he said again. Some of the fight left him, but he was still so agitated he was shifting from foot to foot.

The movement was making me antsy, which wasn’t helping me keep a clear head.

“I just don’t know what to do with any of this.” He shot me another accusatory look.

“You think I do?” I asked incredulously, my anger getting the better of me. “Do you really think I like how I’m a completely different person when you’re around? I hate drama too. I don’t fight with people, ever, but I can’t stop fighting with you. I don’twantto stop fighting with you. It’s familiar and comfortable, and I hate that I don’t hate it.”

“So what do we do about this?” he demanded.

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