Froissart: Chroniques
—Kingston is there.
Each time I move to another shelf?—
Art of the European Iron Age: A study of the elusive image
Kingston follows.
I try to ignore it. Try to pretend this is not happening the way it’s happening, that I’m alone and invisible and not being observed at every turn by a broad-shouldered, black-cladpresence.
And then, in turn, observed by everyone else observinghim.
Finally, when I’ve amassed all the copies of the books on the syllabi—except for Emrys’s class, of course, because God only knows what he’ll choose to assign—I cast around the reading room for space.
I never read up here in fall semester, of course. I had my own space. But
Slowly, I step down the lines of tables, until I find one unoccupied, about three-quarters of the way down on the right, beneath a window. I unload my armful of books just as a stiff draft blows in through the cracking sealant, a swift answer to why this table was empty. I cast a quick glance around, but it’s too late; people have seen me, or seen Kingston, anyway, and it’d look crazy to suddenly pick up and change tables just because of a little chill.
Besides: here, I’m alone.
Almost.
With my books settled, I unwind my scarf, remove my coat, and select a chair, but don’t touch it. Instead, I slide into sideways, too fast for Kingston to try and pull it out for me. I can’t help but catch his expression as I reach for my first book: miffed, maybe. If a man like that can look miffed.
I turn over the cover—it’s Bocaccio,De Mulieribus Claris—and flick past the frontmatter pages to the translator’s preface. Behind me, Kingston doesn’t move.
Just…stands.
I pause a moment, not actually reading, waiting to see where he’ll settle in.
But he doesn’t.
I breathe in. Breathe out. I don’t like the idea of someone hovering over me as I read—hate it, in fact. But changing that circumstance would require me to say something to Kingston, and I just…don’t want to. Don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Unfortunately, this absolutely murders my ability to concentrate. I’m itchy with it; every paragraph I want to stop and look back over my shoulder, and I’m not retaining a damn thing that I’m even reading.
Plus, people are talking.
Library talking, of course. Quiet and low, an appropriate decibel level. But I can see them as much as hear them. Heads lifting to peer at me, at him behind me. Eyes widening as study groups share meaningful looks. Footsteps slowing and mouths actually falling open as people pass.
Finally, it’s too much. I bite my tongue, huff out a breath, and turn around.
“Sit down,” I hiss at Kingston. “You look…ridiculous.”
Kingston’s jaw twitches. But he nods. He swings around to the opposite side of the table, pulls out a chair, and sits.
Finally, I think. And try to get back to my reading.
Except…
No, I realize. This is worse.
Now he’s so close I canfeelhim there, feel his eyes on me, feel the heat of his body thatmustbe my imagination, because there’s no way that we’re close enough.
After twenty more minutes, I give up.
I slam the book shut, get to my feet, and gather my things.
