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Not to mention the screaming fact that she’s Marty’s kid sister—too much like my own.
Also, there’s no earthly way she wants to hear about the war.
Some parts of that hell-gauntlet, I’ll never tell anyone, not even Uncle Grady or the guys at the VFW.
I just wish she made it easier to shut her down without giving me that wide-eyed, glassy stare, like I just kicked a puppy in front of her.
“It’s nothing personal. I’m a private man, and I don’t want questions about what the hell went on over there. No more than I want you out here bothering me.”
“Bothering you?” She flings it back at me with venom in her voice.
“Yes, bothering me. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m trying to do your grandma a favor.” I don’t mean to sound like a giant asshole. I just want her gone.
She’s making me think about shit I used to want in a past life. Things that other people have that I don’t, and never will.
Like Uncle Grady, who’s happier than I’ve ever seen him this past year, ever since he shacked up with that strange, tiger-obsessed woman who fits his life like a glove. Willow filled the pothole in his world in ways he never knew he needed.
I’m happy for him, and I’m also well aware that’s his life.
Definitely not what’s meant for me.
Definitely not with her, of all forty million single women in the country.
“Got it. I’m sorry to intrude on your oh-so-precious time,” she snaps, tossing her nose in the air.
I ignore her as her shoes scuff the floor, hopefully a sign she’s leaving.
Nope. I’m not that lucky.
She turns, waiting for my eyes, a hand cocked on her hip.
“You know, you could at least be civil with me after all this time. I never even asked about—”
I shoot her a glare that stops her mid-sentence.
Thank fuck. This is not the day to talk about broken promises, all the reasons why I couldn’t send her a single letter.
“I tried,” I say bluntly. “I tried to give you polite.”
Her glare hardens. “So this is it then? This is how you want it to be? We act like strangers with an old grudge or I guess we just...we don’t act like anything at all?”
“Whatever works.” I shrug so hard my shoulders ache.
“Okie-dokie.” With one last sharp glance, she whirls and marches to the door.
“Glad you understand!” I call after her, hating my big mouth the second it’s out.
I’m not expecting what she throws back with so much anger.
“I hate you, Weston McKnight!”
Hate? That’s a strong-ass word.
I fucking bristle like I’ve been hit by an arrow. Pissed that she always needs the last word, and angrier at myself for making her say them.
What the hell is my malfunction? Did Afghanistan make me such a total broken porcupine?
And just when I think she’s done, she turns again, striding several quick steps toward me with a finger stuck out like a dagger.
