* * *
We argue all the way back to our casita. Well, you argue. I walk, dragging you along behind me. Back in our room, I run the shower, lock the door, and get in. I need to think—but more than anything, I need to get away from you. You’ve lost it. You’re like one of those drunken girls, hurling insults at me, accusing me of things I’d never do, and you should ask Amy what happens when a woman can’t shut her mouth—and you can’t.
As I let the water pour over me, I consider the best way to deal with you. I come up empty-handed.
Eventually, when I retreat from the bathroom, once I’ve determined nothing more than I’m bad at love and should never have gotten myself into this, I find you sitting on the bed, your phone in your hand.
“I’ve booked an earlier flight,” you tell me and your tone
