Marianne downed the rest of her drink as she put the glass on a table. “I’m ridiculous? You have the nerve to call me that? I’m not fucking people in some seedy club.”
She can feel it bubbling with her. The anger. It threatened to flow right of her, as his words edged her closer. “I tell you all the time, I’ll take care of everything, when are you going to let me?” She asked, knowing that she might as well bring up all of Henley’s sore subjects. “You’re not an orphan anymore. You have me.”
He doesn’t understand. This isn’t her, angry, at odds with him; she doesn’t treat him this way. This notion, the feeling of being utterly disconnected, only propels his anger further. “What the fuck? Why would you even –– that doesn’t even make sense. It’s my fucking job. It’s how I make a fucking living!”
Henley rolls his eyes dismissively. “Fuck off. Just –– fuck off, Mara. I don’t need to be taken care of.”
He turns from her –– then turns back, when a thought occurs to him suddenly. One that shouldn’t be spoken aloud, but escapes him in the heat of the moment. “You can’t fix me. You know that? Stop trying.”
