Hate is baggage. Life's too short to be pissed off all the time. It's not worth it. (American History X)

Lilia stayed another night. Christian knew something was up but he didn’t mention it just then. Maybe it was the dancing across the lawn and through the empty barn that tipped him off. Perhaps it was the puking and sweating and shaking. Either way, after she left the next morning feeling like she still recovering from a terrible case of the stomach flu I walked back into the house and asked Christian what we should get for lunch.

He stood in the kitchen with a straight face and his arms crossed.

“Are you mad that we missed church? We can go to the night service. I didn’t want to rush Lilia.”

He didn’t say again.

“She was so sick, poor girl.”

“She was sick,” Christian repeated, annunciating each word.

I nodded slowly, careful about each muscle that was engaged in the apprehensive movement.

The tiny hairs on my arms stood on end as he stared at me unnervingly. I was afraid of him in that moment. I didn’t know what he was going to do.