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"There's nothing calm or predictable about a kid."
"Yeah, but they didn't really realize - or accept that. I didn't learn to ride a bike until Jamie taught me as an adult because the idea of scrapes and trips to the emergency office would be an inconvenience. I mean, that makes them sound almost cruel. They weren't cruel. Just... detached."
"Selfish."
"Yeah, I guess that is fair to say. I think that's why I started working as young as I did. I wanted to be around animals."
"So they didn't let you have pets either, huh?"
"Not even a goldfish. My mother didn't want them stinking up the house. My father is allergic to just about everything. He used to make me come home from work and shower right away, stuffing my work clothes in a bag until laundry day, so I didn't set off an allergic reaction. It was a bit of a relief to move out, honestly. My parents aren't bad people. We are just... very different people."
"How'd you manage to move out on your own so young?"
"Jamie. She'd been working at the shop that was always servicing my car. We became friends. She wanted to be able to start dating, but knew her parents - as accepting as they may have been - wouldn't have been entirely comfortable with her bringing girls home to their house, so she suggested we pool our money and get a place together. So that was what we did until I inherited the farm."
"Did you have any plans to turn the farm back into, well, a farm?"
"I want to restore everything back to what it was once. And I wouldn't mind maybe having some of those pygmy goats and chickens. Oh, and maybe a pig. The pig rescues are always so full because people are idiots and think mini-pigs could possibly stay the size of a Yorkie for its whole life. But they're super sweet. We have someone who brings her guy into the store and he makes all these little grunts and he even squeals when he gets excit... I'm rambling," I realized, shaking my head at myself. If there was ever a way to make my mouth run away with me, it was to get me onto the topic of animals.
"It's sweet," he declared, lifting his sandwich for another bite, making me realize he was more than halfway through with it. "This is really good, by the way," he told me with a somewhat surprised nod.
"Now you have a quick midnight snack option that doesn't involve your rather impressive supply of potato chips. I didn't know dill was even a flavor option."
"They're new," he informed me, shrugging off his salt addiction.
"Pickles are gross," I told him, nose wrinkling. "In my opinion, nothing should be pickled ever. What?" I asked, watching his smile slowly fall, his eyes going thoughtful.
"My mom hated olives," he declared, voice almost a little guarded. "My dad loved them."
"That's cute," I told him, picturing a happy couple across from one another in a restaurant, the woman pushing the olives off to the side of her salad plate, the man reaching across to stab them with his fork.
"Hey, Savvs..."
I knew.
I knew what he was going to say, what he was going to do.
It was in his voice. The soft rawness there. Something I figured for discomfort but determination despite it.
"We don't have to talk about it," I offered, gaze staying stubbornly forward, sure I would implode into a ball of embarrassment if I saw the rejection on his face.
"The thing is, sweetheart, we do," he told me, his hand closing around my thigh in a way that was becoming familiar. "You're really not going to look at me?" he asked, a hint of humor in his tone.
"No." My voice was barely even audible to my own ears.
"Come on," he tried, giving me another squeeze, his body leaning forward to catch my gaze. "There you go. I just need to know something."
"Okay," I agreed, taking a steadying breath as I met his eyes a little more willingly.
"Did the reality live up?"
"I'm sorry?"
His eyes warmed. "I'm not blind, Savvy. I know there have been some... feelings over the years. Lots of build up in the head..."
Was he being... insecure?
I mean, it wasn't crazy. I could picture it. Unlike the cocky boyishness of Atlas and Rush or the collected don't-give-a-damn confidence of Nixon, Kingston - to me - always seemed the most down to earth, the most grounded. And with that came all the pesky human weaknesses. Like occasional lapses in confidence.
"You're serious?" I asked, head shaking. "Were we in the same office earlier?" I asked, watching as the tension in his jaw slackened, a small sign of relief. His hand squeezed again, his touch a little higher up than before, more intimate.
I don't know where it came from.
