Page 7 of Sweet Thing

One bit.

I barely knew her, yet here she was, scowling away at me like I’d done something to piss her off. When she wasn’t giving wistful looks over her shoulder toward her dad, she would stare at me with his eyes, a deep mossy green that now reflected suspicion where his shone nothing but goodwill.

So she was embarrassed about our previous interaction. I resolved to be the adult here and make it easy for her.

“Good trip, then?”

Another forlorn glance over her shoulder. Her dark hair, like spilled ink, was in a messy ponytail, little wisps laying damp against her neck. She wore jeans and a long sleeve T-shirt with a setting sun on the front.

“Yeah, great.”

“Your photos were amazing. You have a great eye.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You saw my photos?”

“Your dad was always showing them, usually over dinner at your place.” Looking at them, I’d felt like I was right there in the thick of a Turkish bazaar or a religious procession through narrow, cobblestoned Italian streets.

She weighed that observation for a moment but remained silent. Jesus, this shouldn’t be so hard.

“Those songs, too. For Tilly.”

Another share from Kershaw. Adeline and her little sister were very close, and one of their ways of connecting was through funny little songs about butterflies and birds. I didn’t pay as much attention to those, but I recall being struck by Adeline’s voice, sweet and clear.

“Just silliness.”

“Good to be home, I bet. You must have missed everyone.”

Her eyes took on a subtle tilt, like some movie goddess from the forties.

“I did. But it was good for me to get away.”

Another awkward pause. Maybe I should let her off the hook.

“I’m guessing you have other people you want to talk to.”

She shook her head, color high on her cheekbones that not even her sun-kissed skin could mask. “Sorry, Lars. As you can probably guess, travel hasn’t made me any less awkward in my dealings with other humans. I’m still a weirdo.”

“Sure, but the world needs weirdos.”

That loosened her up, might even have reminded her of a conversation we had years ago at a Rebels holiday party about embracing her weird and carving her own path. Her shoulders relaxed and I got the sense she wasn’t as uncomfortable as she was a couple of minutes ago. Her next words confirmed it:

“I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

“Thanks. No love lost, though.” Everyone was aware of our estrangement, but I needed her to be clear on it.

Sven Nyquist was an asshole and I’m nothing like him.

“That probably made it all the harder.” She placed a soft hand on my forearm and squeezed. Shockwaves sizzled through me at that skin-to-skin contact, and I froze, barely able to reckon with how her sympathy practically undid me.

Seeming to recognize her effect, she withdrew her hand and changed the subject.

“So are we going to address the elephant in the room?”

Finally.This was good. Lay it out there and clear the air, which was now polluted by an unearthly squall in the distance that sounded like a baby.

“Are you still thinking about that?” I tried to infuse it with casual, maybe even a touch of absurdity that it would be on anyone’s mind at all.

The prettiest blush suffused her cheeks and that gulp in the slender column of her throat? I shouldn’t have been enjoying that at all.

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