She'd even force me to record videos apologizing, just to play them back to me as a reminder of my supposed shame, proving her eternal rightness.
But I'm over it now. Done.
Maybe I was seeing things, but I swear I caught a glimmer of panic in Jane's eyes.
Breaking character, her voice softened, "Look, I got held up that day. I'll swing by and check on Emily soon, okay? Let's drop it."
I snorted.
If she'd bothered to even check in on Emily once or cared to ask how she was, she wouldn't be spouting such nonsense.
It's been nearly ten months since she last saw Emily, on New Year's Eve I begged her to come home.
"Drop it?" I sneered, "Who's holding it here? Take another step and I'm calling security."
Jane seemed knocked off her script by my sharp tone, standing there gaping.
A moment later, she went white as a sheet and slapped me, "Mike, how can you treat me this way!"
Really, how had I treated her?
We grew up together, our families intertwined, close as can be—yet somehow that wasn't enough.
Tasked with carrying our families' hopes, I went abroad for college.