IMOGEN'S POV
He slid the water toward me. "Drink this."
"Don't tell me what to do." But I picked up the glass and took a sip anyway. I needed to appear resistant but not completely uncooperative. The balance was delicate.
"What happened, Imogen? You don't do this. You don't call me drunk from downtown bars."
He thought he knew me, as if survival looked like dinner parties and polite smiles. As if I hadn't clawed my way out of rooms where fists spoke louder than words. He never saw me walk barefoot over broken glass to leave. He never watched me stitch myself together after being torn apart. He didn't see the girl who learned to hide bruises or the woman who swore no one would ever break her again. He thinks I'm fragile because I'm drunk?
I laughed, putting no humor into it at all. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."
"I know you're running from something. I know you're scared. I know that whatever brought you here is bigger than just wanting a drink."
