I hold onto it, because fuck him.
He mutters and swears at me as he tries to pull it away, and I hold on until I’m afraid the fabric’s going to tear. By the time he wrestles it away from me, I’ve fallen from the chair into the floor. He whips the blanket across the room and it falls over the arm of the couch. From my hands and knees I push myself up, but he grabs me, spinning me and backing me up aggressively, then shoving me. I land on the couch, so it’s not a hard landing, but I’m not sure what’s coming.
It’s weird, because his eyes don’t look right. He doesn’t look enraged when he attacks me, strangled with impotent anger and lashing out. Even the shove felt a little half-hearted.
“What?” he says, as if egging me on.
I don’t take the bait. I don’t feel like fighting tonight. I just duck to the side and stand, then go to walk past him so I can get the frozen pizza out.
He stops me, grabbing me again, shoving me against the counter. It does hurt when my hip slams against the edge of the counter, but I don’t show it. He grabs a chunk of my hair and yanks, and it hurts my heart instead of my head. Liam in the woods with his hand fisted in my hair right before he kisses me flashes across my mind.
Ouch.
A slap across the face pulls me out of my Liam memory, but it’s not as hard as I expect it to be.
“What are you gonna do, huh?” he asks. “You gonna call your fucking boyfriend?”
I meet his eyes then, his half-hearted, not all that angry eyes, and it clicks—he wants me to.
My gaze jerks to the front windows. I don’t know if I expect to see shadowy figures, poised to take him down when he shows, but I don’t.
“Huh?” he says again, jerking my chin so I’m looking at him again. “You think I’m afraid of him?”
I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m placid as I meet his gaze. “I think all of you are.”
Something jumps in his eyes, and that’s not anger either. My mind races to string together the pieces, to keep up.
The rage he mustered seems to drain right out of him. He stays close, holding onto my arm, but there’s no force now.
“What?” he says, in case he misunderstood.
“Why do you want me to call him?”
He tries to say, “I don’t want you to call him…” but I shake my head, fed up.
“Bullshit. What the hell is going on?”
He drops my arm now and backs up, his pretense of anger evaporated. He sighs, dropping his head into his hands and swearing.
“Why do you have to be so goddamn difficult?” he finally mutters.
I follow him down on the couch and wait.
Finally he looks up, after a few more dramatic sighs, and says, “You need to tell me where you met this guy. For real.”
“Nope. Next.”
“Annabelle… I’m serious.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure he’s using you,” he states.
My stomach drops but my face remains impassive. It’s a stupid thing to say and I’m angry at him for even saying it, but I want to hear his reasoning.
“If you’re not going to say anything…” Paul trails off.
“Why would you even think that?”