Is It wrong?

i.

The car ride back from Applebee's was a silent one.

After your father and Miriam had departed, heading off to continue their date at a local bar, you'd retreated to Michael's car without another word. Throughout the car ride, he continued to throw sidelong glances at you, mouth quirking up at the corners at the way you scowled, arms crossed protectively over your chest. You could tell it was taking everything in him not to say something stupid.

Mentally, you scolded yourself for expecting anything more from a boy like Michael Langdon. You could hardly even feel sorry for yourself; this was your fault for being so naive.

You couldn't help it, though. There was something inside you that made it impossible to hate Michael like you knew you should, something that compelled you to give him his way, even when you knew he didn't deserve it. For christ's sake, you'd even allowed him to finger you under the table while your parents were sitting right there!

What the hell was wrong with you?

You'd been asking yourself that question nonstop ever since things had gotten complicated between the two of you. At one point in your life, you'd had a good head on your shoulders. Now, thanks to Michael, you were nothing more than a mess of poor decisions and teen angst.

Michael pulled into the driveway and you got out of the car, slamming the door with an unintentionally large amount of force.

"Hey, don't slam the door," said Michael as he stepped out, and you scoffed.

"I'll slam the door all I fucking want," you shot back, storming up the porch steps and tapping your foot impatiently as you waited for Michael to catch up with you and unlock the door.

"Jeez, what's your problem?" he said, heading onto the porch once he'd locked the car. You felt a surge of anger bubble up from your stomach, and you swallowed the compulsion to start screaming at him right there in public.

Instead you shut your eyes and let out a shaky sigh, digging your fingernails into your palms hard enough to draw blood.

He opened the door and you pushed past him to go inside, grateful to no longer worry about the prospect of being labeled a crazy bitch by some eavesdropping spectator. You were alone with Michael now, and you were free to do as you pleased.

Michael shut the door behind him, but you were quick to block the stairway, cocking your head to one side and planting your hands on your hips. You hadn't even realized how upset you were until right now; your body was trembling, and your throat narrowed slightly as angry tears stung your eyes. "You wanna know what my problem is?"

Michael gave you a puzzled look, clearly caught off guard by this. And of course he was caught off guard- you were sure that in his mind, he'd done absolutely nothing wrong.

You decided not to wait any longer for him to respond. "My problem, Michael, is that you keep making me believe that you're going to change, but you never do. You claim that you like me, that you want to spend time with me, that I'm so different from all the other girls you've fucked, but you've done nothing but treat me like shit. And then when I get upset about it, you act like you don't even know what I'm fucking talking about."