Bridget!
I heard him coming a mile away and I did what any self-respecting adult would do when faced with a confrontation.
I hid.
Only he knows me so well he was opening cupboards as he talked, looking for me. I was standing beside one of the opened bifold doors by the front hall closet listening to his diatribe about my absolute gall in calling Caleb and what did I need that I would go looking for trouble when trouble finds me.
(Without a map, time after time, a homing beacon locked on a moving target, no less.)
I am trying to parse Lochlan's one-sided discussion and failing because he's moving too fast and his voice cuts in and out between the accent and his movements and I finally get so frustrated I bang my head against the door and it slides closed, revealing the red hair and concerned face of my conscience.
My conscience frowns his disapproval and yanks his jeans up a little higher at the same time. He is losing weight, something he tends toward every summer when the days are long and hot and he lives on night air and bright lights and joyful screaming.
(But it sounds so disturbing written like that.)
I step back behind the door, opening it again to block his unwavering gaze. I don't want to present to him right now. I don't want to answer to him. I don't want him to be involved in my brain right this second but these are the moments when my judgement tips over the front of the Ferris wheel and he scoops it up from the platform and returns to the brake to stop each car at the line to exchange riders. He won't give it back for days. I'll have to beg. I've been doing a lot of that anyway lately, I guess.
He Scottish-clicks open disapproval at me and I cover my whole face so he won't see how much that sound annoys me.
Don't hide your face. Be mature.
Pot, kettle, Locket.
I know, but why did you call him?
If I could answer that I wouldn't be hiding.
So be brave.
I'm so not brave.
Oh, yes you are.
Nope. Wrong girl. Move along. I sink to the floor behind the door and he reaches down to scoop me back up, standing me on my feet, closing the door and pulling me away from the wall in one practiced, acrobatic motion.
Fine. I'm very brave. That's why I called him in spite of your eventual disapproval.
My immediate disapproval. Disapproval isn't the word I would use though. You're so fucking proper sometimes. I should be grateful, I suppose, considering I taught you to spell on the road.
Yes, you should be grateful that I'm so awesome.
And braver by the minute, it seems.
Oh! Just shut up!
You first!
Fine!
