Flint's brown eyes snap up to Scout's face. "No," he protests. God, this is his fault. "Scout, no. You haven't done anything. It's me. I'm sorry. I guess I... I don't know how to be okay with everything lately. But I've been trying to be a good friend."

This explanation—as rambling as it is—sounds hollow as soon as it drops from his lips. Wouldn't it have been noble, if Flint had been doing this for anyone's sake but his own? If he'd been so brave and honest, instead of reckless and unkind, like he always gets when he loses control of his wants.

"...Sorry." Flint dusts off the knees of his jeans, and stands. "That probably doesn't make any sense."