Serena learned to hate his explanations. Once, she might have admitted they were clever; now she recognized them as variations on the same theme: "It's not my fault."
Listening, she could almost predict the next sentence, the next argument, the next justification.
"The girl was in a rough patch, that's all. I felt sorry for her...everyone did. I'm just the one who stepped up. She's nothin' to me. You gotta know that."
"I don't gotta know that. Or anything else." She turned away, fully and finally repulsed.
He clutched desperately at her arm. "Wait! There's more!"
"Not for me," she said.