I look away, having trouble keeping eye contact. “I was just about done, anyway,” I grunt, stubbing the cigarette in the ashtray on the porch railing.
She closes the door behind her and steps closer to where I’m standing, keeping the coat tight around her by crossing her arms over her waist.
“Actually, can we talk?”
Great.
“Why?” I respond flatly, flicking my gaze her way, then back to the ground as I chip at a piece of icy snow with the tip of my boot.
I hear her sigh, and there’s a shard of guilt stabbing my ribs for always acting so difficult.
I push it away.
“What happened to your knuckles?” she asks, her tone slightly shocked.
Shit.
As a reflex, I look down at my left hand, the knuckles bruised purple.
Last night, after hearing that Connie was moving back to Marsford Bay, I went out back to expel some of my frustrations and ended up punching the side of the shed. As irrational as it might be. The very thought of Connie moving back makes me grind my teeth together. I would rather she’d get out of my life altogether.
Shame forces me to hide my hands in the pockets of mybomber jacket. EvenIknow that bruising my knuckles because I can’t deal with my emotions is fucking immature.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
Connie blinks. Once, twice, three times; as if not knowing what else to say.
“Huxley,” she says defeatedly, and my nape tingles with my name on her lips. “We can’t keep on ignoring each other like this, especially now that I’m moving back.”
I can feel anger wash over me like a protective shell. “Right.” I chuckle dryly. “God forbid everything isn’t perfect for Connie Broadbent now that she’s decided to grace us with her presence.”
Her mouth snaps closed, and she narrows her eyes. There’s a tense beat of silence that passes between us before she speaks again.
“You know,” she starts, and just by her tone, I know I’m not going to like what she’s about to say. “If you want me to start treating you like a grown-ass adult and not like the teenager I once knew, maybe stop acting like such a fucking brat.”
The wordbratpulverizes my ego, and I’m left staring at her without any good comeback. She smirks, pouting her lips ever so slightly as if proud of her jab, and I hate that I feel so attracted to her, even now.
I maintain eye contact, chewing on my pride, but say nothing.
“Can we at leastpretendto be civil for everybody’s sake?” she asks hopefully.
Still, there’s a touch of impatience in her voice as ifI’mthe one being difficult.
Because.
Well …
I guess I am.
Pushing off the railing, I give her a half-hearted shrug. “Sure, as long asyou'rehappy, right?” I step around her to reachfor the door. But before walking in, I lean close to her side and hiss next to her ear. “YourHighness.”
I hear the small tsk leave her lips, but I don’t look back. Smirking just like she did, I close the door and leave her standing alone outside in the cold.
“So, a theatre, huh?”
I look up just in time to watch Connie startle from Ozzy’s seemingly innocent question.
After gifts were opened around the Christmas tree, we all gathered at the dining room table for breakfast. The table is full of large stacks of pancakes, plates of bacon, breakfast potatoes, and whatever else Ozzy felt like whipping up so that everyone could get their favorite.
