By mid-morning I decide he’s not going to come to me. He’s not the type—he’s the one who’s been wronged, he’s the one who has to be cooed to and courted. f**k that, though it takes all I have not to creep sheepishly next door and tell him I’m sorry. He has to realize I’m not like the other boys he’s had. I’m not so easily manipulated. If he wants something from me, something more than s*x, a relationship, then he has to realize it won’t just be on his terms. He has to meet me halfway, I’m not going to get hurt again.
He’s not John, that voice in my head whispers.
I know he’s not, but he likes to play and I want him to see he’s not going to play around with me. If we get together, it’s not going to be a damn Olympic event, each of us one-upping the other, him pouting and me giving over ev
