Her perfume hung thick in the air—expensive, cloying—clashing violently with the antiseptic still clinging to my clothes.
"You finally decided to come back?"
Glacial. Dripping with accusation.
"I thought you'd actually grown a spine and learned to run away from home."
I kicked off my shoes. Dropped the bag with my medical records onto the entryway cabinet. The incision in my stomach throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that had become as familiar as breathing.
"I was sick." I met her gaze. "I've been in the hospital for a week."
Her hand paused over the glossy page.
Finally, she looked up.
Those eyes—the ones I used to drown in—held nothing but mockery and disbelief.
"Sick? Hospitalized?"
A scoff. Like she'd heard the world's worst joke.
"Andrew Mason, there has to be a limit to your tantrums over a single photo, right? Using a fake illness to garner sympathy—don't you think that's pathetic?"
So that's what this was to her. My agony. A clumsy farce performed for her attention.
My heart had been numb for so long her cruelty didn't even sting.