51

He doesn’t. Nate’s never judged me, even when he acts like an asshole with multiple jerk tendencies. He’s strict but never judgmental. He’s practical, but never narrow-minded. “Nate…” I whisper his name in the silence of the night, and I sound so drunk and emotional because he’s still not looking at me. “Shut the fuck up, Gwyneth. I don’t want to hear your voice right now.” The harsh anger of his words is like a slap to my face, a hard one that springs tears. They’re gathered in my lids now and I don’t get the chance to wipe them away before he opens his car door and drops me in the passenger seat. After he fastens my seatbelt, he yanks off his jacket and throws it on top of me. It smells like him—spices and woods and damnation. That’s what he is and always will be. My crime and my worst damnation. Another word on my D list. By the time he’s in the driver’s side, I’m clenching the jacket tight against my hammering chest. He pulls out of the parking lot and drives down the streets in si