“I’ll see you Monday then.”
“Yep.”
I hang up, putting the phone back in my hoodie.
“Who was that?” Lachlan asks, his voice tight.
“Ansel.” I still don’t turn around to look at him.
He makes some kind of noise in his throat that I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a response or not.
I only manage to eat one more bite and down the entire bottle of water. There’s a slight headache brewing behind my eyes, but it’s the least I deserve after the damage I did last night. Luckily between the adrenaline and how long I was in the cold what could’ve been a potentially killer hangover is very mild.
I empty my plate, rinse it, and stick it in the dishwasher.
I’m stalling.
I know it.
I’m sure he knows it too.
I stand between the kitchen and his living area. He doesn’t look away from the TV when he says, “You need to go, Dani.”
“I have to say something.”
He forces his eyes from the screen, cocking his head at me. One dark brow arches. I can tell he’s pissed. At me? Himself? I don’t know. “What?”
“I should say I’m sorry, but I’m not.” His frown deepens. “I’m not sorry at all for last night. I’m not sorry for trusting you when I don’t con
fide in anyone. I’m not sorry for calling you. And I’m not sorry for kissing you. I think it’s a bad habit to apologize for things you’re not sorry for and I refuse to.”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Do you not see how wrong yesterday was?”
I swallow, rocking back on my heels. “Wrong doesn’t always mean bad, Mr. Taylor.”
His lips part, but he doesn’t say anything more, instead crossing his muscular arms over his chest. His eyes flick over me once more, head to toe, stopping on the sweatshirt I still wear.
Still, he says nothing.
“I’ll see you Monday.”
It’s the same words Ansel said to me, but somehow so very different.
With those parting words, I turn and walk out, unsure if I’ll ever be welcome back again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I’m grounded for the next decade,” I announce to Ansel when he plops into his seat beside me in art class.
He winces, pulling his sketchpad and supplies out of his messenger bag. There are things we can use that are provided, but he always chooses his own. “That bad, huh?” He flips it open to a clean page.
I grab my own sketchpad, opening to the current class project. Ansel finished his a week ago and now works on whatever he wants during class time.
My drawing of a hippo, the animal I was assigned for this project, looks more like some animated made up creature than anything real. Ansel’s eyes flick over it, but he doesn’t say anything.
I wish I had his talent, but I don’t.
“Sage reamed me out. I deserved it, though.”