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It’s that moment when I think—no, I know—I’m in love.
He thinks I’m the most annoying person in the world, and I’m sitting here deadass sliding into love. What the hell am I going to do?
Chapter Five
Sam
Maybe I took it too far today. Maybe I showed that I’m a little bit attracted to Wren by putting my foot down at lunch.
However, I surely do not give two tiny shits what the other jurors think of me. My main concern is Wren getting too attached to someone who’s no good for her.
I’m just protective is all. She needed food—nutritious, filling food. It isn’t fair for her to eat lettuce and bread while the rest of us get what we want. If the system needs a jury, then the jury members’ needs have to be met while we’re doing our duty. Seems simple to me.
Problem is now, I’m afraid Wren will take this as a signal that I have feelings for her.
Maybe I do, in a very basic, primal kind of way. I’m a man, alone, who hasn’t been with a woman in a very long time. But mostly, I believe, it’s a protective thing happening here. She’s the smallest and thinnest of our little quarantined herd. I’ve always had a soft spot for the small, vulnerable creatures.
I know I shouldn’t go comparing her to the runt of the litter, but she brings out that same instinct in me: must protect her.
I glare at the romance novel I brought with me that now sits on the desk in my hotel room. It’s just putting more ideas into my head. Angrily, I chuck it into my suitcase. I don’t want to see that picture in my room anymore, a constant reminder of the girl I’m forced to sit next to every day. Definitely ain't gonna read that now.
Never mistake a soft spot for compatibility.
First of all, she’s way too flighty for me.
Second, she’s young enough to be my daughter and that’s putting it lightly. Not quite young enough to be my granddaughter unless you start counting at age fifteen.
Third, there must be some rule about jurors fraternizing.
Fourth, I’m a sour old curmudgeon and she deserves someone who can keep up with her. Someone who makes her laugh, makes her smile, someone who shares her complicated vegan lifestyle.
I can’t be any of those things for her.
Staring at the ceiling, I think about what I want for dinner. I’m not hungry; nothing sounds good to eat. But I have to occupy my mind somehow. I try to keep my mind on task, but it always wanders back to her. The way she looks at me, the way she beams and shows all her teeth, like she never met a camera she didn’t like. The way I can feel her eyes follow my ass around the room when I get up to stretch my legs in the jury room.
A soft rapping on the door to the adjoining room startles me. Betty? I think that’s her name. What the hell could she possibly want?
Pull yourself together, man. Maybe she’s in trouble.
I pull open the door and it’s not Betty staring back at me. It’s Wren. Dressed in nothing but that long, soft sweater from the other day.
She looks distressed. “Wren. What is it? Is Betty OK?”
As expected she doesn’t answer the question. “Nobody’s ever done that for me before.”
“Ma’am?”
“Cared enough to stand up to people on my behalf. Like, ever.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, self conscious about the fact that I probably have “hungry breath.”
“It was just lunch. You needed to eat.”
“I wanted to say thank you. Properly.”
I look over her shoulder. “Where’s Betty?”
With a completely deadpan expression, Wren says, “She tried to sell me her oils, and I smothered her with a pillow.”
