“You do this every time,” he said. “Every single time something matters to me, you need attention.”
Before I could speak or even fully register what he had said, he got out, walked around the front of the car, and yanked my door open. When he grabbed my arm I was too stunned to move quickly enough. He pulled me partway out of the car while I scrambled to get my footing, one hand locked around my forearm, the other briefly gripping my shoulder. I managed to grab the doorframe with my free hand and get both feet onto the ground, but the movement was rough and sudden and nothing about it was careful.
“Eric, stop it!” I said. “I’m in pain, I’m telling you something is wrong!”
He was loud enough that two people walking a dog on the sidewalk across the street stopped and stared. “You are not in pain. Stop acting. You want attention? Walk home. Get out of the car.”
He released me, got back behind the wheel, and drove away.
