Aren’t you mad at me?

      “Mmm,” he sighed. “I may take you up on that.”
      “So is it my turn now?”
      “Your turn?” his voice was confused.
      “To apologize.”
      “What do you have to apologize for?”
      “Aren’t you mad at me?” I asked blankly.
      “No.”
      It sounded like he really meant it.
      I felt my eyebrows pull together. “Didn’t you see Alice when you got home?”
      “Yes — why?”
      “Are you going to take her Porsche back?”
      “Of course not. It was a gift.”
      I wished I could see his expression. His voice sounded as if I’d insulted him.
      “Don’t you want to know what I did?” I asked, starting to be puzzled by his apparent lack of concern.
      I felt him shrug. “I’m always interested in everything you do — but you don’t have to tell me unless you
want to.”
      “But I went to La Push.”
      “I know.”
      “And I ditched school.”
      “So did I.”
      I stared toward the sound of his voice, tracing his features with my fingers, trying to understand his mood.
“Where did all this tolerance come from?” I demanded.
      He sighed.

    “I decided that you were right. My problem before was more about my . . . prejudice against werewolves
than anything else. I’m going to try to be more reasonable and trust your judgment. If you say it’s safe, then I’ll
believe you.”
    “Wow.”
    “And . . . most importantly . . . I’m not willing to let this drive a wedge between us.”
    I rested my head against his chest and closed my eyes, totally content.
    “So,” he murmured in a casual tone. “Did you make plans to go back to La Push again soon?”
    I didn’t answer. His question brought back the memory of Jacob’s words, and my throat was suddenly
tight.