"I'm not changing into anything," Rory said, though there was just enough of a sigh in her voice to tell a sharp guy like Brandon that she was losing some of her fight. Resigned, almost, to the idea that she wasn't herself. "I'm just...not okay. I don't want to talk about any of this."
The moment she said it, Rory realized just how much she meant it. She didn't want this to be real even though she knew it was. There was no denying what she'd done, but telling people was something else entirely. It felt like she was holding a live grenade, and Brandon was asking her to just let it fall. Rory wanted to tell him he had no idea what he was asking of her, she wanted him to know that this would change how he looked at her, but it wasn't a fair assumption. She had to give him more credit than that.
"I killed someone," she said, barely louder than a whisper, gaze dropped desperately to her beer bottle. She didn't want to look at him. Couldn't. Even if she wanted to give Brandon all the credit in the world, that heavy shit he wanted to know felt a lot like the deal-breaker that could shatter a friendship. It wasn't rational, but then, Rory wasn't rational right then. She wasn't herself.
"I didn't have to. I could've left him alive. But I killed him."