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Booker’s eyes flick over to Archer and back to me, as if he’s uncertain how to handle me.
“Your accent is interesting. American?” I continue. “I like it.”
“South Carolina.” He nods. “Glad you approve.”
“Glad you approve,” Eric mocks, his accent making the words take on a different tone. “Such a proper asshole. Always going on about his manners.”
“Nothing wrong with manners,” I argue. “It’s refreshing compared to the rest of you. At leastsomeoneis a gentleman here.”
“I’ll be a gentleman all right,” Eric grumbles. “I’d make sure you finish first. Booker wouldn’t even last a minute.”
Booker doesn’t argue, letting the words hang in the air with a huff, which tells me all I need to know. It wasn’t true, just normal masculine bickering.
Deciding to go in for the kill, I lean closer to Booker. “I can be the judge of that,” I purr, my fingers just barely grazing his arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I see everyone tense, but I don’t understand why, not until my chest pushes against the syrup bottle. It falls and clanks loudly against the ceramic plates, echoing like a gunshot in the old house. Booker flinches hard enough to dislodge my fingers, and I jerk back, worried I did something wrong. When I see the shadows pass in his eyes, and the panic and pain reflected there, my heart squeezes.
“Booker—” Archer begins, but Booker shoves away from the table, his chair scraping so hard across the floor, there are probably scratches left behind in the ancient wooden planks.
I watch with wide eyes as he forgets his food and storms from the house, the door slamming behind him so loudly, I see him flinch again through the dirty window. Blinking, I stare after him in confusion. His reaction looked like an anxiety attack. Had I… Was I the cause of it?
I push back from the table.
“Leave him be,” Archer orders, but he’s not the boss of me.
“I’m going to go check on him.”
“So you can trigger another reaction?” Archer challenges, sounding so condescending, I want to punch him in his perfect mouth.
My face tightens, but I turn and rush after Booker anyway. I may not understand what caused the reaction, but I understand anxiety attacks well. It took me a long time to come to terms with my triggers. I still struggle with some of them, but it helps to have someone there with me. When I’m lost in my own anxiety, my fingers crush each other, trying to hold it together. None of the others get up to go after Booker, which tells me it probably happens often enough that they stopped trying to help.
But I understand.
I step out the door and search around for the large man. When I find him sitting out in the middle of the field, staring up at the sky, I slowly make my way towards him, barefoot and wearing nothing but a large shirt and shorts. I make my steps loud so he can hear me approach.
I understand probably better than anyone.
