Page 66 of Meet Me In The Dark
It’s disappointing she’s not in the mood for a full-blown argument. I’ve come to enjoy those as much as any sparring match I’ve ever had.
“You could at least say good morning,” I add.
“It’s not a good morning.”
My presence has pissed her off even more than usual today, and for some sick reason, that drives meforward. Before I know it, I’m matching her pace, closing the gap until we’re running side by side.
I take in the clenched set of her jaw and the headphones in her ears that always make her seem like she’s in a different world when she runs.
For some inexplicable reason, I gesture toward them. “What do you listen to all the time, anyway?”
I cringe at my own fucking question. I sound like a high school kid fumbling for conversation. But if I’m so determined to invade her mornings, I might as well try to understand her, even if it’s something as trivial as her choice of music.
She tugs out an earbud. “What?”
“What are you listening to?”
“You’re not supposed to talk to me on these runs, remember?” She eyes the space between us. “And you’re very close.”
I fight the urge to stop and shake her. “Enlighten me.”
“Music,” she deadpans, eyes back on the path.
Patience, Julian.
“Yes, my little ray of sunshine, I know that much.”
She huffs again, then yanks the right earbud out and holds it toward me.
Honestly, she could just as easily stab me with something if I touch her, so I look at it.
“Do you want it or not?”
Without a word, I take it and slip it in. Radiohead'sCreepbursts into my ear before fading intoNumbby Linkin Park.
She doesn’t ask for the earbud back, but she does shoo me away a few paces.
When we get close to her favorite coffee shop, we repeat the same dance as yesterday, with her glaring atme while I’m still faster at paying. She hates it.
Outside her building, she jerks to a stop, chest heaving. I hold the earbud out, and she snatches it without a word.
“You’re welcome for the run,” I say.
Her head snaps toward me. “You didn’t help me. You annoyed me.”
Mission accomplished.
She’s furious, and I’m the cause. It shouldn’t bring me any twisted satisfaction, but it does because it means I’m getting to her, cracking the armor she wears so damn proudly.
She shakes her head, muttering something about egos before heading for the door.
I look up at the building, knowing she’s up there now, probably pacing and cursing my name.
Good.
When my phone buzzes with Nathan’s name, my mind is still on the woman who swears she doesn’t run on Wednesdays, yet ran anyway, who hates smiling and small talk almost as much as I do, and listens to songs that reveal a softness she works so hard to hide.
The next morning, she still glares at me in greeting but silently hands me the earbud.
