Page 25 of Broken Clocks

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I lifted my middle finger.

“It counts about this much.”

He didn’t leave.

I shoved him hard as hell.

He shoved me back.

I swung, hand colliding with the side of his head.

His hand shot out, tangled in my dreads.

I growled, teeth flashing, and bit down on his tongue when he tried to kiss me.

I tasted blood before he yanked away.

“The fuck, Eshe?” he cursed.

I didn’t stop there.

I swung again, caught his lip, split it open.

He stumbled back, hand pressed to his mouth, blood seeping through his fingers.

We stood there, breathing hard.

Chests heaving.

Room thick with rage and everything we’d never said.

He looked at me like I was unrecognizable.

Like he’d finally seen the storm he built.

“This what we’ve come to?” he rasped. “You really hate me?”

I didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

His shoulders dropped.

He turned slowly.

Each step toward the door sounded final.

But he paused once—half in shadow, half in light—and looked back over his shoulder.

“Don’t call me when you regret this.”

“I won’t.”

I didn’t breathe until I heard the door close behind him.

And even then, I didn’t cry.

Three days later, I let him back in.

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