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And the answer to that question is… nothing.
There’s no reaction. None whatsoever.
He’s as calm and cool as ever. As concerned about Callie and her lunch and her classes as he usually is, which he should be, of course.
But I was hoping that he’d have some reaction.
I was hoping that he’d give some indication that he’s read the letter and not just crumpled it and thrown it away.
Disheartened, I look away from him and go back to my food.
It’s okay.
It’s totally okay if he hasn’t read it.
Maybe he will. Later. Or maybe he won’t.
And that’s okay too.
I’ll just have to keep writing them until he gives in and reads one. And then I’ll keep writing him some more until I convince him.
Until I make him see that I’m his flower.
I’m just not sure why I want to cry. Why I want to stab this piece of carrot over and over.
“So Reed. He’s good with cars, yes?”
His voice makes me stop and look up.
Conrad’s standing by the table, his hands down in his pockets, his features arranged in their usual neutral, unaffected way. Well, except when he’s looking at me and frowning.
And when he’s talking about Callie’s ex-boyfriend and the guy whose baby she’s pregnant with, Reed Jackson.
“Uh, yeah,” Callie says hesitantly, as flabbergasted as me and Poe and Salem that her brother is willingly mentioning Reed.
Who is good with cars.
Remember the car Callie drove into the lake and because of which she ended up here? Reed built that car himself. So yeah, definitely good.
Conrad jerks out a nod. “I need someone to look at my truck. Do you think he’d be up for it?”
Callie’s eyes — as blue as her brother’s except for a lighter shade — go wide, as she nods her head. “Yes, of course. I-I mean, I don’t see why not.”
“Good. I’ll bring it to your house this Saturday.” Then, “And I’ll bring lunch.”
“What?”
His jaw clenches for a second before he sighs and shifts on his feet. “As a thank you. For hopefully looking at my truck. And for…” Another sigh. “Taking care of you.”
I realize what it is then.
I realize what he’s doing here.
He’s giving them a chance. He’s giving a teenager a chance. Not that Reed’s a teenager, but still. His sister is, and he’s willing to let them show him how well they can handle this situation.
And he’s doing it because of what I said, isn’t he?
He is.
He so is.
And so when he steps back, ready to leave, without even looking at me through this whole encounter — he never does, but still — without even acknowledging my presence, I blurt out, “Please don’t leave.”
My hands fist, one clutching the stabby fork and the other set in my lap, at my stupid, impulsive words.
Although they do stop him.
My words halt him in his tracks and his eyes, denim blue and glittering, settle on me. And narrow. Making my heart soar and pound in my chest like a happy bird.
“I-I mean, why don’t you, uh, eat with us?” I say, stumbling, tasting thick, sweet love on my tongue. “You never eat with us.”
Poe and Salem, like the good friends they are who are in on my secret, nod. Callie nods too but more cluelessly and thoughtfully as if this is a good idea that’s only now occurring to her.
Her brother, however, doesn’t know all this.
Because he’s not looking at them.
He’s looking at me and he’s doing it in a way that makes me think that he’ll never look away.
“Eat with you,” he rumbles, rasps even, staring steadily at me.
I let go of the fork and bring my hand down to my lap so I can clutch them both together. “Yes. I mean, it’s lunch and you’re going to eat anyway, right? So might as well do it with us.”
Again, Salem and Poe nod. Callie too. And again he’s oblivious to all that because his eyes are glued to me.
From my messy braid, on the verge of unraveling, to my heated cheeks.
“Actually I’m not,” he says at last.
“You’re not what?” I ask, tucking my strands back.
“Going to eat this afternoon.”
“Oh. Why not?”
He lets a beat pass before answering, “Because I have to catch up on some correspondence.”
“What?”
He nods gravely, shifting on his feet. “Correspondence. Emails, letters. That sort of thing.”
Now my heart isn’t beating at all.
It has slowed down.
It has also dropped from my chest and down to my stomach.
Like a flower dropping off the stalk and falling to the ground. Waiting to either be picked up by someone’s kind fingers or be crushed under someone’s boots.
“Letters,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and natural.
“Yeah,” he replies, and is it me or has his voice gone even lower, rougher. “I received a letter this morning and I’ve been...” A pause, then, “Thinking about it.”
“Oh.” I swallow, twisting my hands in my lap. “Have you?”
