Meg lay curled on the bed turned away from him, trying to gather her thoughts. He had twisted her words again. It didn’t matter what she said. He had a better parry for it. This was why she hated arguments with him. Her feelings didn’t seem to matter. As long as he won. He made her feel… less than. But that wasn’t right. Her counselor had said no one had the power to make you feel a certain way.
So why did he always seem to know exactly what to say to shut her down? A dull ache just beneath her collarbone began. It constricted, making forming words difficult. She wanted to hit him. Lashing out would feel good. But only make her look childish. As if curling up in a half-formed fetal position didn’t.
She really couldn’t win.