I suppose it told me just how stupid I’d been to come all the way out here on nothing more than vague hope.
At least the job had panned out.
I just didn’t understand what had been going on with Elliot. He’d been awake when I’d left for work—which was unusual, given his night owl tendencies—and had been surly and not talkative. I’d chalked it up to him being tired, but maybe he’d just deliberately been avoiding me. He’d honestly been getting more and more withdrawn all weekend, despite the fact that I thought we’d established a pretty good working rhythm.
This weekend had been finishing up the shower box design—making an entryway with shelves for towels or changes of clothes and adding in wall-mounted shampoo and soap dispensers—and then helping do inventory of hardware and wood so that he would know what to replenish for the paying jobs he would take in.
It wasn’t like we’d had an argument or even a disagreement. But he’d been short with me the whole weekend, despite thefact that I tried to do everything he asked me. And it wasn’t like he yelled at me or even said anything mean or rude. But there was no banter, no sly crooked smiles, no teasing. Just sharp instructions or responses to my questions.
And I had no idea why.
Work had been mostly paperwork, cataloging, and trying to light a fire under the asses of various people at the state lab to finish a couple of comprehensive tox screens—including one on blood we’d sent over from the shifter kidnapping. Smith had been onourasses about it, so we passed that on. Not that it did anything.
But because there wasn’t much for me to concentrate on work-wise, I’d spent most of the day worrying about what was—and wasn’t—going on between me and Elliot. About whatever I’d done to make him angry or upset. About the fact that it bothered me a lot more than it should have—because I’d completely obliterated Rule Two. About the undeniable feelings I had for him.
About the conversation I’d had with Hart. The one where he’d told me that Elliot had feelings for me, too. And the one in which he’d told me that Elliot probably wasn’t going to take it well if I tried to talk to him about it.
Hart had known Elliot pretty much all their lives. Since they were at least in kindergarten or something. He knew Elliot far better than I did. Knew his moods, good and bad. Knew how he thought. Which meant that Hart was almost certainly right—but I couldn’t help but fantasize, on my drive back to the house, about Elliot confessing his own feelings back, about what it would be like to kiss him—Rule One be damned—and what it would be like to sleep not just with him, but beside him. In his arms.
I knew that probably wasn’t going to be the outcome if I confessed my feelings. Especially not with the mood he’d been in recently.
But I also didn’t know how much more of this I could take.
I set down my fork,too nervous to eat as much as I probably should have. I half-expected Elliot to say something—before this weekend, he would have. But whatever I’d done wrong, or whatever had happened, made him keep his comments to himself. He also hadn’t eaten much, doing more shoving of his food than putting it in his mouth.
It wasn’t that the meal wasn’t good. It was simple, but good—rice, spiced beans, shredded chicken marinated in a spicy pepper sauce, and cheese for Elliot. But neither one of us had much of an appetite, apparently.
It finally got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Did I do or say something wrong?” I asked him, trying not to sound whiny or let him hear the lump in my throat.
He didn’t look up, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. “No,” he answered shortly.
“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” I tried again.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
So much for me attempting to be supportive. “Okay,” I said softly. I wasn’t really sure what to say after that. But I couldn’t just leave it there. “Is there something I can do?”
“No.”
I shifted in my chair.
Elliot finally looked up, and I didn’t like the twist of his expression. Almost angry. Derisive. Then it smoothed out, but itleft me feeling a little shaken. I didn’t want him to think that way about me.
Then he sighed. “It’s just… not a good day,” he said, finally.
“Sorry,” I half-mumbled.
Elliot shoved more rice around on his plate. “Not your fault,” he replied, his tone tight.
After another five or ten minutes of silence broken only by the sound of fork-tines on plates. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I got up, taking my plate with me over to the sink, pushing the food I hadn’t eaten into the garbage disposal. I felt bad about wasting it, but I didn’t have the stomach for it.
I heard Elliot sigh behind me. “I’m just in a foul mood,” he said. It was almost an apology, but it wasn’t, and that left me still feeling unsatisfied and unsettled.
“It’s okay,” I told him, putting my dishes in the dishwasher. That done, I began to get out various containers into which to put the rest of the leftovers—one for rice, one for beans, and one for the chicken. “But I want to help, if I can.”
He got up and rinsed off his own plate, putting it in the dishwasher. “Why?” he asked me, a little belligerent.
