He didn't look at me again. He stood, brushing off his clothes as though I'd contaminated him, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused—didn't turn around—his voice flat with warning:
"You're the one who pushed me away, Marina. You're the one who didn't want my attention, my affection. So stop running to Grandfather to complain. Stop playing the victim, crying about how I neglect you, how I mistreat you. It only makes me despise you more. It only makes you look cheaper."
The door slammed. The walls seemed to shudder. Silence crashed back into the room—so complete I could hear my own breathing, ragged and hollow. The stench of alcohol and Gretchen's perfume still hung in the air, clinging to everything, making my stomach turn.
I lurched off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The faucet shrieked as I wrenched it open, icy water thundering into the sink. I grabbed my toothbrush, loaded it with paste, and attacked my lips—scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. Again and again, hard enough to tear skin. I needed to erase him. The trace of his breath. The humiliation. The revulsion. Every memory of him that had ever touched me.