27
Quincey
I had an emotional hangover.
I’d been a b***h the night before—the biggest—and Nate was right. He’d been so right. Melodramatic? Plaster my face in the dictionary next to that word.
He even told me he’d gone through things in his own life, and there I was, wailing about my own. I had one controlling father. I didn’t even know all that Nate had gone through in his.
Nate had asked about dancing, and the agent conversation last night. He was right about that, too.
I was getting tired of how right he was all the time. Like, screw him and the saintly horse he rode in on? Then I looked around, and I was on his bed, in one of his bedrooms, in his house, and yeah.
Melodramatic and hypocrite could both be my new labels.
I glanced over and saw it was nearing five in the morning. N
