Regan cleared her throat. “I appreciate it. I do.”
His mouth hung open.
“What kind of response is that? You appreciate it? How about you say you care about me in return?” He turned his face.
“No no, I meant the gesture. The party. I appreciate it, but it’s not how I wanted to spend my birthday.”
Brandon’s mouth tightened.
“I mean, I don’t even talk to half of these people. And they’re already wasted. It’s just not my scene,” she continued.
“You make no effort,” Brandon snapped, whipping his head around to look at her. “We’ve been dating since ninth grade, and you’ve made no effort to get to know my friends and be a real part of my life.”
What? she thought. Is this guy for real?
“Lately I feel like you don’t give a shit about me,” he said.
I don’t.
“I explained everything to you about Hannah, but I feel like you still don’t believe me.”
I don’t.
“And I can’t tell you how much that hurts. I told you the truth. I threw this party for you. It’s like I can’t make you happy,” Brandon pouted. “I mean, who are you? I just . . . I don’t even know . . .” He paused and looked at her shirt. “Why are you wearing that?”
Regan flushed, eyes falling to her chest. “What is your obsession with my clothes? Why do you even care?”
“I care because I can’t help but think it’s a sign of you pulling away from me,” Brandon said.
Yep. Casey went running to him after all. Just as she’d threatened.
“And I don’t like it. I don’t like you dressing that way,” he said. “You need to change it.”
Regan jumped up. “Are you really saying this to me on my birthday? I mean, seriously. Are you really telling me what to do? You’re a jerk!”
Brandon stood up, towering over her.
“I’m not trying to be a jerk, okay? I’m just saying that appearance matters, and lately people have been like, ‘What’s up with your weird girlfriend?’ How do you think that makes me feel? We’re supposed to be setting an example.”
“We are? What example? How to act like assholes?”
“Watch it,” Brandon warned.
“Don’t threaten me,” Regan shot back. “I’m sick and tired of you telling me what to do and what to say and what to wear!”
“I don’t tell you what to do,” Brandon argued.
“You just did! You told me to change how I’m dressing!” Regan cried.
“You make it sound like I’m saying that kind of stuff to you all the time,” Brandon said.
“You do! Maybe not overtly, but you do. You always have. If there was something you didn’t like about me, you’d let me know with your little bullshit subversive comments. Sometimes I’d hear them from Casey. Pffst! Like I didn’t know you’d gone to her. Like I couldn’t figure out that you’d sent her to fix something about me that didn’t jive with your super cool persona.”
“Jive?” Brandon asked, raising his eyebrow.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t been manipulating me for years!” Regan shouted.
“I haven’t.”
“Okay then. Molding me. How’s that?”
“Molding you?”
“Yes, Brandon. Molding me. Changing me. Making me what you want me to be,” Regan replied patiently. “And I’m sick and tired of it! I’m not that girl. I’ve NEVER been that girl. I don’t take orders from boyfriends. I don’t let people boss me around. I don’t shut my mouth. I don’t let guys—”
She fell backwards onto the sand, smacking her tailbone painfully. He put her there with a hard shove.
“I didn’t mean it,” Brandon said quickly. He reached out his hand. “I forget my own strength sometimes.”
“No,” she whispered.
“Just take my hand, Regan.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry,” he whined. It was pathetic and insincere and everything she hated about him.
“No, you’re not.”
She knew it was unwise to argue. Resistance might fuel his anger even more, and then she’d walk away with a bloody nose or purple eye. The safe thing to do would be to take his hand, lie to him that everything was okay, and then sneak away when she had the opportunity. Then she could break up with him via text, and she’d never have to worry about being alone with him again. She’d be surrounded at school. She’d make sure she was never left alone at home. It could work. All she had to do was take his hand. For now.
“Get up, Regan,” Brandon ordered. He waved his hand at her impatiently.
No, she thought, raging against her feminine survival instincts.
“Fuck you,” she said, her eyes fastened on him. “I’m not touching you.”
Brandon dropped his hand in slow motion. She watched his face turn from genuine surprise to dark malice. She knew what was coming. It lay dormant in his arm muscles for three years. All he needed was a legitimate reason, and now, she’d given him one. She disobeyed. She said no.
He whipped his hands out in a flash, grabbing her upper arms before she could run away. She squealed as he hauled her to her feet. And then it happened. He slapped her—hand whipping across her cheek in a blinding sting. The sting was rife with purpose—threatening, demanding a change she was unwilling to make. Demanding a person she was unwilling to be.
The mark would pulse red for a few minutes—maybe an hour—and then disappear like it was never there. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew not to punch her. Bruises give guys like him away. But a slap is elusive, like the glimpse of garbage brought to the surface by a churned wave, only to disappear into the depths within seconds. Physical evidence erased with only the message remaining: I was here. Now try to prove it.
Regan glared at Brandon as she massaged her cheek.
“I wanna scratch your eyes out,” she hissed.
“No, you don’t,” he challenged.
“I wanna scratch your eyes out,” she repeated.
“Stop saying that.”
“I wanna scratch your eyes out!”
“Shut up, Regan!”