‘I’m not going to insult you.’
‘But I’ve given you permission! Just do it. I promise I won’t cry.’
‘No,’ he says flatly.
I pretend to gasp. ‘There! See?Thattone was perfect. Hold onto it and try again. That’s the kind of hostility we need.’
‘That wasn’t hostility.’
‘It was absolutely hostility.’
‘It was exasperation.’
‘Well, exasperation counts,’ I say, feeling a little exasperated myself. ‘We can make exasperation work.’
He looks at me with a mix of disbelief and something elseI can’t name and then drags a hand down his face. It’s a long-suffering motion that ends with him staring at me through his fingers. ‘Imani.’
The way he says my name, like he’s half pleading, half desperately trying not to laugh, makes my stomach flutter.
I straighten in my chair, as if the movement might literally shove the feeling back down to wherever it came from.
‘Yes?’ I manage. I’m aiming for breezy and unbothered but can concede I probably land a little closer to breathless.
He drops his hand from his face and looks at me with a tired kind of fondness that makes the flutter intensify tenfold. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘Better,’ I say, with a grin. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’
‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
A sigh escapes him. It’s one of those long, extremely resigned ones that suggests he’s questioning every single decision he’s ever made that’s led him to this exact moment. Then he shifts in his chair, squares his shoulders, and looks directly at me as if he’s preparing for something utterly monumental.
‘Fine,’ he says quietly. ‘If you insist.’
I brace myself. ‘Do it.’
His entire demeanour changes. Gone is the slightly shy, bashful-looking man I was staring at before. Now he looks cold and stern, and I think I could genuinely believe that he hates me.
I realise, very quickly, that I don’t like that, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.
‘Imani,’ he begins, solemn as a priest. ‘Your handwriting…’
I blink. ‘My handwriting, what?’
He hesitates for what I’m sure has to be dramatic effect, then delivers the blow.
‘… is atrocious.’
For a full second I can only stare at him.
Then another second passes.
Then a third.
I glance down at my notebook and take in the admittedly chaotic mixture of loops, half-formed letters, and the slant that changes direction three times a sentence. Hmm. Okay. Perhaps he has a point.
I look back up at him and a laugh bursts out of me.
