Unfortunately, battling compassion and sympathy for my new boyfriend and his father was anger and resentment. It was one week into our relationship, perhaps premature for a live viewing of one of his dad’s benders, much less my offer to help out like I was a member of the family. But would it have killed Finn to pull me to the side and communicate something…anything?

He could have spared one minute—thirty seconds—to say, “I need to deal with this on my own.” Or “I appreciate the kindness, but it’s better for you to go.” Simply “I’ll call you later” would have done the trick. Any of those sentences, spoken with the right tone and coupled with the appropriate facial expression, would have made all the difference.

Instead I got “Just go.” He barely glanced my way, like I wasn’t even in the room. Perhaps it was displaced shame on Finn’s part, but it hurt like hell on mine. He’d shut me out. Hard. I was a willing ally treated like an enemy, and I was not okay with it.

And why hadn’t he objected when his dad called me names? Sure, Mr. Adams was inebriated, but it didn’t justify Finn’s silence. I was his girlfriend. Shouldn’t he have defended my honor? I kicked the comforter to the floor and grunted my aggression. Would it always be this way? And if so, could I live with that?

On the bright side, crying was exhausting. At some point, I wore myself out and slept through the night, only waking up now because of the sun shining through the blinds. In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth too hard and liked it. Despite my anger, I had texted Finn permission to come over no matter how late it was, but he hadn’t even replied. For all I knew he was still in Middletown with his dad.

There was a knock on the door, followed by “It’s me.”

“One second,” I yelled, hoping the words weren’t too garbled by the toothpaste in my mouth. I spit it out and dried my face. I made a move to comb my hair and thought better of it. Bedhead was the least of our problems. Anxiety pooled in my gut, but there was nothing to do but let Finn in.

He looked terrible—as bad as someone as hot as Finn was capable of looking—purple half-moons under his eyes, pale complexion, wrinkled clothing, the works. Without a word, I drew him into my arms and squeezed, drinking in his scent. In my personal war of emotions, compassion was victorious over anger.

He squeezed back. Whatever else he was feeling, he needed this too.