She usually knows what to say. Even when she's outnumbered, outgunned, whether she's joking around with her pals or standing her ground to someone twice her size. Things like this knock her flat, leave her reaching for what to say.

He's angry.

Sure, he has every right.

But then he's brushing past her, and she's standing there deaf and dumb, thinking the last thing she wants to look is vulnerable.

"It ain't your  —  fault."

Her words come out fierce at first, and she has to temper them. She turns on her heel, watching his back as he retreats.

"I shouldn't have  —  I ain't used t'men bein' so forward, an' I should've said somethin'. I'm sorry. I  —  I didn't mean t'lead you on. I really don't have good luck with men."

She toes the dirt, clenching and unclenching her jaw. God damn, but she's embarrassed.

"I won't blame you if'n you're angry, but I  —  I hope this isn't the last time we'll talk."

Dadgum.

"Anyhow."

She drags her hand through her hair.

"I'll let you go."