"I don't know what you mean," I said, my voice guarded.


"It's better if we're not friends," he explained. "Trust me."


My eyes narrowed. I'd heard that before.


"It's too bad you didn't figure that out earlier," I hissed through my teeth. "You could have saved yourself all this regret."


"Regret?" The word, and my tone, obviously caught him off guard. "Regret for what?"


"For not just letting that stupid van squish me."


He was astonished. He stared at me in disbelief.


When he finally spoke, he almost sounded mad. "You think I regret saving your life?"


"I know you do," I snapped.


"You don't know anything." He was definitely mad.


I turned my head sharply away from him, clenching my jaw against all the wild accusations I wanted to hurl at him.


I gathered my books together, then stood and walked to the door.


I meant to sweep dramatically out of the room, but of course I caught the toe of my boot on the door jamb and dropped my books.


I stood there for a moment, thinking about leaving them.


Then I sighed and bent to pick them up. He was there; he'd already stacked them into a pile.


He handed them to me, his face hard.