Wait.
He’s not leaving?
I want to look up, but that would mean uncovering my face, which is tear-streaked and snotty. And my sobs are still coming in rapid-fire wheezes.
“I-I-I’m Alicia Milton. My son is engaged to Harriet’s sister.”
“Mmhm. I see,” Beck says in that almost calm voice that I’m starting to realize might not be that calm at all. It… it might be angry.
And now I really want to look up.
Instead, I hiccup another sob and try to get my breathing under control.
“You and your friends are enjoying the park? A long walk, I’m guessing?” he asks, and, yep. That’s anger. Tightly leashed but anger all the same.
Another sob squeaks past me. I suck in a shaky breath and fight harder for control.
“Y-yes, and when I saw?—”
“When you saw us kissing, did Hattie appear to be in distress?” It’s like he’s balancing on a tightwire. How can he sound so eerily calm and yet clearly pissed at the same time?
I have to see this. I’ve got nothing but my sleeves to mop up my face, but at least I’m not wearing makeup. No smears.
But because everything good has been ruined, tears are still slipping from my eyes. My face and neck are still hot. So I tug one sleeve over my hand and start blotting.
“No, but?—”
“But you assumed something was wrong,” Beck finishes for her.
When I finally look up, Beck is staring down Ms. Alicia. Not glaring. He’s not giving her an ugly look, but something about the hardness in his eyes makes him seem…
Powerful.
Ms. Alicia must not like it because she lifts her chin as her lips thin. “I did. I’ve known the Merciers for years. I know that Harriet is…” She glances down at me. Beck might stare, but I glare for fuck’s sake. “Isn’t… independent.”
What the hell?!
“That’s not true!” I shoot to my feet. But even I can hear the uncertainty in my own protest.
Is it true?
Yes, I live with my parents. But I’m not the only twenty-three-year-old who lives at home. I’m in college.
Sure, it’s online because going in person would drain me too much, and I’m only taking a few classes a semester, but I’m taking them. And passing them.
Mostly.
No, I don’t have a job. But I’ve had them.
Not any I liked.
Or was very good at.
Or stayed in longer than about three weeks.
Or ended the jobs on awesome terms with my bosses.
Or my coworkers.
