My heart pounded as though I had just ripped open an old wound for her to examine.
"And that justified what you did to me?" She wasn't yelling—yet—but each word carried the force of a blade pressed against my chest. "Richard, you broke me." Her chin trembled. "I can forgive you for the petty things—the 'accidental' ice cream you spilled on me in the cafeteria. I can laugh, maybe, at the time you threw my due assignment in the toilet and pretended it was an accident. I can even brush off the gum you mashed into my hair, or the glue you smeared on my chair so I'd rip my skirt in front of everyone. But tell me—" her eyes blazed into mine—"how can I forgive you for what you did that night? Tell me!"
My mouth went dry. The night air pressed heavy on my shoulders. "What night?" I asked, almost whispering, searching her face for clues. My mind scrambled back through years of chaos, childish cruelty. "Nita, what are you talking about?"
