Page 15 of Unspoken Words
“Annnnnnd?” he drawled.
I stopped drying the plate in my hands and rolled my eyes at him. “Now who’s asking a lot of questions?”
Connor smiled then shrugged. He reached for a saucepan, and I think in that moment I liked him even more—I hated drying saucepans.
“Soooo,” I probed, “you were saying you’re sorry?”
“Yes, and I did.”
I waited for him to continue to apologise, but he didn’t.
“Is that it?”
“Yes. I wanted to say sorry and I did that.”
“But you can’t just say sorry and that’s it.”
“Why not?”
I slapped my tea towel down and turned to face him. “Because you haven’t said what you’re sorry for.”
“But you know what I’m sorry for.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“But I could be wrong. If you apologised properly, I’d know for sure.”
Connor’s lips pressed together, his dimples sinking into his cheeks.
“What’s so funny?” I huffed.
“You’re getting snooty again.”
Squinting my eyes at him, I snatched up my towel and dried the last of the cutlery. “That’s because you make me snooty.”
“Everyone makes you snooty, Ellie.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Okay, so who doesn’t then?”
I paused for a second and smiled. “Santa and Madonna.”
We both laughed, and it was nice.
Connor was nice.
The weather was nice.
Camping was sorta nice.
And, for once in my life, drying the dishes was nice, too.
*
The next morning,I foundConnor by the river again at the very same spot as the other times. It was soon becoming our thing—to meet up before everyone else started their day. He always had his guitar: a brown acoustic covered in random stickers—some torn, some new—and I always brought my notebook.
