If anger had a texture, Amara was pretty sure hers would've been something like cheap wool, scratchy, irritating, impossible to ignore even after you tried brushing it off. She dragged the comb through her hair with way more force than necessary, muttering under her breath every few strokes. Her scalp complained, but she didn't care.
She regretted going out last night. Deeply, stupidly, painfully regretted it.
And honestly, she kept thinking: Of course they'd do that. Of course the second you catch a break in life, suddenly you're the villain of somebody else's soap opera.
